


The Jaguar

by thehiddenbaroness



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama, Epic, Family, Gen, Political Intrigue, Slow Burn, slight romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2018-06-10 01:58:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 25
Words: 79,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6933355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehiddenbaroness/pseuds/thehiddenbaroness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 847. The Mediterranean-born Carello family, once staunch supporters of and contributors to the military, were snuffed out decades ago, one by one, in a series of mysterious circumstances. Today, only their thoroughbred strain of horses remains - and their daughter, Mercedes. Raised by her grandmother in anonymity and ignorant of her family history, Mercedes' enlistment in the military threatens to wake the same threat that claimed her relatives before she was born.</p><p>Borrowed from the Western Division to train with the Southern Division, after the Battle for Trost Mercedes joins the Garrison. Now, the one person Jean hoped never to see again seems to have been 'borrowed' once more by the Scouting Legion at Erwin's behest. In his struggle to shed light on Mercedes' - and his Commander's - motives, Jean must shed light on himself.</p><p>[Rated for gore, brief mentions of torture/rape. Multi-chapter, eventual longer series.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - Carello Children

**Prologue**

_ Summer, Year 837 _

Julia weighed the risks. As the cart rattled over the tawny plains and threatened to shake apart her aging bones, she watched first the purple then the green flares soar into the clear blue sky, their ribbons washed open by the wind. The Scout she had not been able to avoid was swinging back their way into position, closer.

_ The Legion can provide cover - we’re still too far away from Wall Maria and we’ve had one too many narrow escapes already, _ she thought, glancing at her granddaughter clinging to the cart seat next to her and watching the Scout, too.  _ But they will ask questions. One is too many. _

“Granna,” Mercedes whimpered and her attention was drawn.

Julia looked where Mercedes was looking - behind them. She could see the Titan lumbering after them, closing the distance. Shortly, a red flare arced upward. 

_ That’s it, then,  _ she thought. The decision had been made for her and she resented it a little. She pressed her lips firmly together and pulled on the reins harnessing their two horses - they veered right, toward the Scout - toward the Legion. At the sharp move the jewel-encrusted gold head of a jaguar-shaped bangle slipped out from under her sleeve. She glanced at Mercedes’ nervous face and the glossy dark curls bouncing wildly out the back of her headscarf. Her father’s curls - Julia’s curls.  _ I have nothing left but you. We’ll risk it. _

The horses snorted harder as they pulled the cart at a gallop up a small hillock; at its crest Julia could see the left wing of the Scouting Legion floating toward them to envelope them one horseman at a time. The Scouts did not look at her, and she watched the rippling horseflesh they rode as it passed in front of and around them as if in a dream. Their horses - the Carello horses.

Then, a Scout approached them directly. She looked down at Mercedes and sensing it, the four year-old returned the gaze. Julia ordered, “Do not tell them our name.” 

 

* * *

 

_ Autumn, Year 847 _

Keith Shadis, as he always did, gave the summary list of applying military cadets a customary scan over his small nightcap of a rich brandy. Although he would only be over the Southern Division's trainees, the lists for all four divisions were compiled into one pamphlet on a clipboard that got passed around all the Head Instructors at the office. It gave him a small amount of amusement to go through the names and laugh at the stranger ones, or see which of the noblemen's spoiled children he'd have the pleasure of getting to piss their pants.

He sat back in his chair and put his feet on his desk, propping the clipboard in his lap. At the other end of the room Miranda Carlstedt-Gaus, the Western Division Head Instructor, had her silver-streaked dark head lowered to look closely at some filing. The steady  _ flick-flack _ of papers provided an unexpectedly soothing background noise.

Shadis wasn't sure how long he was reading for, or even which division's recruits he was looking at, but one soon caught his eye.

"Carello," he muttered.

"Hmm?" Miranda said.

"Nothing."

He looked more closely at the type. 'Carello, Mercedes', innocently lying there amongst about half a page of other C surnames. It sounded familiar, but looking at the ‘Western Division’ footnote of the page didn't help with pinpointing it. He set his brandy on the desk and grabbed a pencil, drawing a line between the name and the next two columns.

_ ‘Hometown: Klorva. Next of kin: Julia Carello, grandmother. Birthdate: 01/01/833,’  _ he read.  _ Where have I heard that name before… _

He wasn't sure why it bothered him so much, but at this point it was like a hangnail that needed removing. He set down the clipboard, too, making sure to mark his page with the pencil, and went to the shelves lining one wall of the office. There they kept tomes containing all the old recruit rosters and related records, grouped according to Corps year.

_ If she's fourteen now, that'd place her relatives in the early 70s' Trainees…  _ At random, he pulled out the 71st Trainees tome – his generation's worth, from when he was a Commander. As he headed back to his desk Miranda peered at him skeptically over her glasses with an amused smirk, but he did not explain himself to her. Luckily, these rosters were listed alphabetically without being separated into Division; he found the Cs, and tried not to tear the delicate pages with his calloused fingertips in his eagerness for his curiosity to be satisfied.

Seeing the names was like remembering the lines they'd stood in on their very first day; like remembering the rows of feet piled on top of one another in the corpse wagons. He was looking at an inventory of the dead. His throat constricted; he took a sip of brandy to ease it.

‘… _ Calliope…Cannon…Cannon…Capra…Carello.’ _ He scanned right over the repeated ellipses. ‘ _ Joaquin Carello: Western Division. Hometown: Dainis. Next of kin: Esteban and Julia Carello, parents. Birthdate: 10/10/807. Graduation rank: Unranked. Affiliation: Scouting Legion, 12th Squad. Death: 21/09/832, Trost.’ _

He remembered, then. Joaquin had been an odd bird. Sharp as a razor, a top-performer, but strangely resistant to taking on any authority and had a preference for solitary work. Spent a lot of time coaching the veterinarians, much to their chagrin. Average height, rather gaunt in the face, dark eyes and hair with an olive complexion even before they'd left on expedition. Shadis also remembered the way he'd carved open the Titan's head, like splitting a peach, to retrieve future Commander Erwin Smith from it like a stone. An inch deeper – he'd chastised him later, in the presence of them both – and he would have carved into Smith, too. Joaquin had merely bitten into an apple by way of reply, unconcerned. Shadis' blood stirred in memory of having boiled that afternoon, and then calmed; after all, one shouldn't hold anger for the dead.

_ So is he her father, or an uncle? _ Mercedes coming to light some thirty years after Joaquin, still with the same next-of-kin…but the name Carello still snagged at his thoughts, despite the answer apparently having been found. There was more to it.

With more quizzical, ever-suffering looks from Miranda, Shadis dragged out the tomes for the 70th, 72nd, 73rd, 74th, and 75th Trainees too, and filed through them to find more Carellos. The 72nd and 75th yielded none, but the others did.

"Of the 70th Trainees – Valentin Carello: Western Division. Hometown: Dainis. Next of kin: Esteban and Julia Carello, parents. Birthdate: 22/11/806. Graduation rank: 8th. Affiliation: Garrison. Death: 14/03/830, Stohess.

"Of the 73rd Trainees – Alejandro Carello: Western Division. Hometown: Dainis. Next of kin: Esteban and Julia Carello, parents. Birthdate: 27/07/808. Graduation rank: 10th. Affiliation: Garrison. Death: 14/03/830, Stohess.

"Of the 74th Trainees – Rafael Carello: Western Division. Hometown: Dainis. Next of kin: Esteban and Julia Carello, parents. Birthdate: 06/06/809. Graduation rank: 5th. Affiliation: Military Police. Death: 31/04/836, Mitras."

The name spun over and over in his head, but he couldn't place his finger on why – as if it was something he'd blacked out in his memory like so much else. This certainly wasn't the only example of a family that had sent so many of their children to die.

"Okay I  _ must _ ask: what in the world are you doing?" Miranda said with a smile. "I've not seen you this frantic about something since you lost that bet with Hausmann. Do I need to get you more brandy?"

_ What harm could it do? _ he supposed. "Does the name Carello sound familiar to you?"

Miranda's smile dropped a little. "Maybe I need to get you to  _ lay off _ the brandy instead, Shadis. You can't tell me you've forgotten that slice of weird." She signed some papers in front of her with a tight flourish of her pen. "The Carellos have had some interesting things happen to them over the years – mostly just the strange deaths of the head-of-house and his sons. Not the normal death you'd expect for us soldiers, y'know? I think they actually moved outside the Walls – rumors went around for a bit that they were being threatened or something, and then when the sons were dropping like flies of course the rumors flew again, conspiracy theories and whatnot. But you know there's no substance to those things." She chuckled to herself. "Why do you ask?"

Shadis tapped the clipboard of the latest roster in lieu of holding it up, since it was buried under its ancestors. "You've got one of them coming into your class next month." He knocked back the last sip of his brandy.

Miranda frowned. "Really? That's…odd."

"Is it?"

She shrugged and shook her head, thinking to herself for a moment. "Come to think of it, I didn't recognize the soldier who brought us the rosters from the area HQs. I didn't think much of it at the time but he asked me something about 'any Carellos' – all happy-like, saying they were friends of his. Didn't even remember that 'til now. I told him I didn't think there were any Carello children anymore."

Shadis wasn't sure why this anecdote put him on edge, but it did. He remembered, now, how Joaquin had died – a supposed 'intellectual dispute' in a bar in Trost that had ended with his body being drug out of the river. He remembered how uncharacteristic it'd sounded at the time. He remembered now, too, what they'd said about the other sons – the Garrison soldiers Valentin and Alejandro found dead at the bottom of Wall Rose with their gear abandoned at the top and canteens of alcohol in their hands, despite neither drinking; the MP Rafael found murdered in one of the safest streets in Mitras with no witnesses and without having discharged his rifle.

"You don't look so good," Miranda said, and he looked up to see her approaching his desk. Her arms were folded across her high-collared blouse. She was about a head shorter than him but her stare was intense. "Care to share?"

He wasn't sure how to begin, or whether to begin at all. He trusted Miranda – they'd worked together for a few years now – but he didn't like indulging in half-thoughts. "Do you…suppose there could have been any reason for the Carellos to be…"

Miranda blinked at him; the corner of her mouth twitched and it made the apple of her cheek more prominent. He was glad in this moment that she usually found him amusing and was willing to suffer the exasperation of it – for some reason her response to his nebulous idea seemed important. "To be persecuted?" she finished for him. "Is that what you're asking?"

"Yes."

Her smile dropped again as she examined him. "Oh. You're serious." She took in a deep breath and gave it more consideration; she perched on what little room remained on his desk. "I don't know much about the family but it does seem…odd."

"You like that word."

"Well, it's accurate. Every time I hear about them – which is more frequent than you'd expect; odd in of itself – there's usually something strange to follow right behind. And now, out of the blue, some guy is asking me if there's any joining the military, when to my knowledge we haven't seen any since the sons were picked off."

"'Picked off' – that's my thought exactly, now that I remember," Shadis reluctantly admitted.

The two of them looked at each other for a moment, seeming to form the same thought but not wanting to say it. Eventually Miranda broke it with a more innocent, "What's the recruit's name?" She pulled out the clipboard of rosters and found where he'd left off.

"Mercedes. The mother of the Carello sons – that were picked off, for whatever reason, by who knows who – is her grandmother. And they seem to be in Klorva now rather than outside the Walls."

Again, a moment of silence.

"You say you didn't recognize the soldier who brought you the rosters?"

"No. And I suppose there could have been some truth to his inquiry, but…"

"Odd that we didn't hear about Julia Carello being back, even if she is all the way in Klorva, or that there's a Carello child running around. Odd that we'd just happen to run into a 'friend' of theirs just as the rosters are published."

It was Miranda's turn to voice a half-thought. "You don't suppose…they – whoever 'they' are – are looking to make sure…"

"That there aren't any stray Carellos still alive? It's possible. It's always possible. We work for an agency that used the title of 'reclamation mission' to disguise a method of emergency population control," Shadis said lowly, and felt the pain of the knowledge like a hot coal in his gut.

"But we don't know  _ why _ , Keith," Miranda whispered, dropping all pretenses of hesitancy. He was surprised by her buying in to this so easily, but then he supposed he was also surprised at himself for buying in so easily too. "Or even if this is something we should get involved in. It's not our job. We're here to train the new little fuckers and that's it."

"You say that, but…" Shadis looked down at the open face of the 71st tome, where Joaquin's name stared up at him in turn. "I owe someone. And the least we can do is keep an eye on this girl – niece or daughter or whatever she is. It may turn out to be nothing at all."

Miranda was silent for a good while, processing. She started to close the tomes and re-shelve them, and he helped her. When they were done she stood with her hands on her hips, staring first at the roster and then glancing at the windows and doors of their office without moving her head. Her face was grim.

Then she nodded at the roster, "Best lock that up. Just in case." She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. "I guess I'll let you know if I hear anything else and once she gets to me, we'll see if we need do anything else. If someone's looking for Carello children," she cleaned a lens with the hem of her blouse, "then I don't think we've seen the last of them."


	2. Arrival

**Chapter 1  
** _ Winter, Year 847 _

 

The clock struck Three o’clock in the afternoon, and the bell echoed over the heads of the tearful parents crowding Klorva’s central agora. Four covered wagons were gathered in the middle of the square and on the seat of one stood a tall Garrison soldier, who called, “Any others? Last call for new recruits!” The first snow of the year fell in a light flurry from the overcast sky.

A few last new recruits pushed their way forward and after giving their names to soldier-attendants on the ground, climbed in the wagons. At one side of the agora the crowd shifted aside to let a black mare, led by an old woman and a young teenage girl, through. 

Mercedes took the mare’s reins from her grandmother, tried to smile. “Thank you, Julia,” she said.

“For what?” Julia grunted.

“Letting me go.”

Julia pursed her lips and looked away, wiped irritably at one eye. “You got your things?” 

“Yes,” Mercedes answered for the fifth time but still eyed the duffle bag on Sabine’s saddle.

Julia ran her hand down Mercedes’ long, thick dark braid and let it fall against her shoulder. “Remember to write, and visit when you can. Don’t punch the other kids too hard. And like I told you,” her voice lowered, “if you don’t have to, don’t -”

“- tell anyone my last name, I know,” Mercedes nodded indulgently as she took Julia’s hands. “I’ll be fine, Granna. Promise.” She still didn’t know why, but it had been their way of life for so long that it no longer seemed to matter.

Julia looked her in the eye and Mercedes could see the hard-fought tears, there. Julia’s mouth opened as if to say something, and then closed; she patted Mercedes’ cheek and embraced her tightly. They stood there hanging on to one another for a long while before Julia uttered, “I’m proud of you.”

Mercedes swallowed the lump in her throat that hadn’t been there a moment ago. “I have to go,” was all she could manage when she heard the soldier call again. She felt Julia nod against her shoulder.

Julia pulled away, sniffed loudly, and then reached up her left sleeve. She pulled out the family bangle - a single hinged gold band in the shape of a leaping jaguar, nearly biting its tail, with amber and black tiny stones forming the pattern of its coat. One of its emerald eyes was missing, as were some of the smaller stones, but it remained impressive nonetheless. 

"This was my grandmother's," Julia told her, "and likely her grandmother's before her. It carries the spirit of the world that was – a better world – and hope for a new one. It has brought us luck, and now it will guard you."

Julia opened it and closed it about Mercedes’ right wrist. Mercedes hid her surprise.

“I love you,” said Julia, and her warm breath fogged and patted her face.

As she was given a kiss on the forehead, Mercedes said, “I love you.”

“Now get out of my sight, you hellion,” Julia muttered with a crack in her voice and forcibly turned her around, lightly slapping Sabine’s rump to get her moving, too. Mercedes walked forward without looking back. 

At the nearest wagon a soldier handed Mercedes her bag, took Sabine’s reins from her and tied them to the wagon, as had been done with other horses that a couple of new recruits had also been in a position to bring. 

Another soldier with a clipboard looked at her expectantly. “Name?”

“Mercedes Carello,” she replied as quietly as she could without seeming shy or nervous.

The soldier flicked to a second page and made a mark, then indicated the wagon with her pencil, “Thanks. In y’go,” she said.

Mercedes felt excitement bubble in her belly as she grabbed the rope handle on the side of the wagon, hooked her foot onto the single rung, and pulled herself inside the warm dark. A dozen or so other recruits stared at her from either side with a mix of cautious camaraderie or curiosity; she smiled at them, but a quick glance didn’t reveal anyone she knew - not that she was expecting to, having not had many playmates the whole ten years they’d been here. 

She looked out of the back of the wagon one last time on pretense of checking for Sabine, but searched for her grandmother. Another recruit hauled herself in and pushed past her, and Mercedes craned her neck. She saw Julia limping back through the crowd to the street that would take her home and, for a second, was upset by her leaving. She heard the snap of reins, the rumble of cart wheels on cobbles, and then the cart began to move under her. At last Julia climbed up on something to be seen clearly above the crowd, and turned watched her leave. Though some of the crowd began to dissipate, Julia was still standing sentry when she was lost to view.   
  


* * *

  
It was an hour or two before the wagons reached the Western Division training encampment, which was situated at the edge of a forest in the northern reaches of Klorva territory, on the Fultoba Hill. The camp proper sat on a plateau on the side of the hill, while the fencing and security gate was at the base - night had fallen and with it came the cold, and the sparse fires at the small gatehouse and just inside the fence were welcomed. Idle chit-chat had been replaced by sniffling noses and growling stomachs.

The wagons pulled to a stop outside the gatehouse, and the horses were unhitched and led away first, through the gate and up a central, straight road out of sight. A couple of soldiers came out of the gatehouse and began barking at the cadets to disembark; they stayed close together in the chill breeze. Mercedes rose on her toes and craned her neck to try to estimate how many of them there were, but couldn’t in time.

“Inside the gate! Stop sniveling!” said one of the gatehouse soldiers as she propped open the wood and wire mesh gate. “Line up either side of the road, rows of sixteen!”

The instructions were not repeated and as they filed in and spread out reluctantly, there was a lot of confused shuffling. Mercedes ended up in the second row back on the left side of the road and waited for the others to fall into place either side, in front, and behind her. More barking from the soldiers, who moved among the cadets and on more than one occasion manhandled them into the right spacing. As they spread out, even though the light from the torches barely reached the far ends of the rows, Mercedes was better able to count them: she estimated there was maybe just over one hundred cadets. In her wagon she’d met another couple of kids who were her age or close to it, and it seemed so obvious. Now, looking at the others’ faces, she found she couldn’t distinguish ages. How many were twelve? How many thirteen or fourteen, like her?

On the other side of the fence the wagons rattled past on their way to some unseen destination - farther along the fence, maybe, or somewhere else entirely - and the cadets nervously watched them go. For a split second Mercedes wondered if they’d had it all wrong, and this was some sinister mass-imprisonment. Now that the cadets were lined up, the guards closed all gates with a loud  _ squeak _ and  _ clank _ of the hinges and bolts.

_ Probably won’t be much difference, _ she thought, remembering Julia’s warnings that military life would not be glamorous or even character-building. 

“Attention front!”

A petite female soldier atop a dark horse was walking slowly from the plateau toward them, and stopped in the center of the rows. Firelight glinted off her small-framed glasses and the metal clip of her clipboard under one arm. Her silvering-brown hair, shorn in a bob, was tousled by the strengthening wind as she turned her head to look at them. Mercedes couldn’t make out her expression at this distance.

She began, calmly but loudly, “My name is Miranda Carlstedt-Gaus, and I am your Chief Instructor. You will address me formally as Chief Carlstedt-Gaus, less formally as Chief, and acknowledge me as Sir. Understood?”

“Yes, Sir!”

“You will obey all instructions given by myself and my staff, and in turn we will not ask you to do anything immoral or that we would not do ourselves. You will respect each and every other cadet in this camp. As of this moment you are on my soil, and you are at the very bottom of the pecking order. Understood?”

“Yes, Sir!”

Carlstedt-Gaus walked her horse to the end of the line at the gate, turned, and began to pace back. “You will come to know me as harsh but fair - I have a reputation for graduating small classes and refuse to accept quantity over quality. I expect nothing but the best. For those of you who make it beyond my biannual dismissals, the next two years will result in your graduation as fully-fledged, exemplary soldiers of the Western Division of the 104th Trainee Corps. I applaud your brave decision to join us.”

The Chief Instructor paused and looked them over again. Mercedes thought she could detect something sad in her expression, but perhaps it was a trick of the light.

“You may have heard of other Instructors who work based on intimidation. I am not that kind.” She sat up straighter, cast her voice behind her to include the guards, too, “It’s getting cold. We’ll not bother with roll tonight - let’s get you up top and fed. Move out!”   

The cadets, with Carlstedt-Gaus ahead of them, began to shuffle down the packed-gravel road toward the hillside, leaving the firelight behind. The Chief Instructor led them up the first of several hairpin turns that Mercedes could see created a zigzagging road cut into the plateau; there were several stumbles in the dark and loose stones skitted and bounced off the steep drop into the bushes that clung there. Mercedes glanced either side of her at the quiet faces upturned to the dim glow that awaited them at the top.  
  


* * *

  
The center of the camp was the dining hall, and right next to it a large, flat training ground and track with its red dirt stained purple in the fractured moon- and firelight that reached it. Dormitories were grouped in pairs around the training ground, with a few other buildings and skeletons of equipment scattered farther out still. Mercedes couldn’t see the stables where Sabine - the only familiar thing in this place - had been led to. Although she’d done her best to push down nerves, her gut was twisting and her confidence waning; she flinched as she brushed shoulders with the other cadets being ushered inside the warmth of the hall.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the light. The dining hall was larger than any building she’d ever been in, but the low ceiling made her feel claustrophobic even with her short height. As they dispersed among the long trestle tables and benches, she could see that the far wall had a buffet line of sorts with the Chief’s staff bringing out vats and platters, stacks of shallow bowls. The cadets were herded in that direction, though Mercedes wasn’t fully sure by whom. She was in a daze brought on by tiredness and good smells.

“You’re lucky you arrived on a meat day,” Carlstedt-Gaus called over their heads. Mercedes couldn’t tell where the Instructor was. “You’ll get it once a week so don’t waste it. You have half an hour to eat up and then it’s off to the dorms. First bell tomorrow is at sunrise - I expect you breakfasted and uniformed and lined up in alphabetical order on the training ground by 7AM sharp.”

Mercedes was in line before she was fully aware of it, and a bowl shoved into her hands. Chicken and turnip stew, over hot rice. Although it didn’t look as good as some of the things she managed to cook for her grandmother - whose plethora of skills did not extend to cooking or nutrition in general - Mercedes was grateful for it. She grabbed a spoon from a box of them at the end of the line, and picked an empty table. Sitting cross-legged on the bench, she began eating.

“Hey, do you mind?”

Mercedes glanced up, saw a lanky blond boy gesturing at the bench opposite her with his bowl. She made a combination of nod and shrug, swallowed her mouthful, and smiled. A blonde girl of equal height and build slid onto the bench next to him. She remembered them from her wagon. 

“Esme,” said the boy and held out his hand across the table. He had the confident smile of a young man rather than a preteen, and Mercedes felt her own confidence perk up in response.

“Mercedes,” she offered in turn and accepted his hand. She was glad he hadn’t volunteered his surname and insodoing obliged her to reveal hers.

It was the girl’s turn. “Katka.” Her smile was smaller, cooler, and her blue eyes were narrow - Mercedes couldn’t decide if she was tired or annoyed or if they were just small and deep-set.

“Do you know anyone here?” Esme gestured with his spoon.

“No,” Mercedes shrugged. “You?”

Katka tipped her head in Esme’s direction, “We grew up together.”

“Looks like a few people already know each other, and those are twins over there,” Esme added. He paused, then turned back to his stew. “I bet we’ll all know each other really well by the time this is over, huh?”

The three of them laughed softly.

“So why’d you join?” Mercedes asked them, not sure what else to say.

“Helps that when we graduate, we can send money from our wages back to our families,” said Katka. She stirred her stew and looked at Esme, waiting.

“Me?” Esme said with a self-effacing laugh that Mercedes struggled not to find annoying or false. “I want to lead.”

“Lead?”

“Sorry, that probably sounds strange. I don’t mean that I want glory - not really. I mean that I want to drive us to victory. I think I can do that. I think we can do that.”

Mercedes wasn’t sure how to respond. She could detect the genuineness in his voice and the more cynical part of her wanted to reject it, laugh at this unexpected confession. Another part of her wanted to believe him.

Esme finally met her eye. “What about you?” He blew on the spoonful of soup and ladled it into his mouth.

Mercedes resettled. She wasn’t quite sure, and that felt a little embarrassing in light of Esme’s conviction. “It just seemed the right thing to do.”   
  


* * *

  
Thirty of them - fifteen girls, fifteen boys - were housed in the two dormitories on the farthest side of the training ground. With full bellies and the sudden reintroduction to the cold - not to mention not being allowed to take a direct route over the track - the walk seemed far longer than the group anticipated. It’d started out as a larger crowd, and then each group had peeled away as their dormitory was located until there was only Group D left - Groups E, F and G had taken the route on the opposite side of the track.

Boys had gone into one dorm and the girls into the other per staff instructions; what few belongings they’d been allowed to bring were waiting for them on their assigned bunks. Despite the brief amount of acquainting that had taken place during dinner, conversation was minimal and wariness back front and center for everyone. It didn’t help Mercedes that none of the girls settling in around her were those she’d spoken to in the dining hall. 

The long room was lit by two gaslamps hanging at either end of the center aisle; the somewhat dingy light cascaded over the two rows of four bunk beds. A single tiny bathroom - toilet and sink only - was at the very back in the right-hand corner, beside which was a single window. The left-hand corner had sixteen tall, narrow, open cubbyholes divided through the middle by a shelf - fifteen of which contained their uniforms - boots on bottom, white pants folded on the shelf, jacket on one of two hooks in the top portion.

As she walked to the rear to locate her bunk - last row on the left, bottom bunk with the sixteenth empty one on top - Mercedes remembered how a month ago the the recruiting staff had come round to take her measurements for the uniform and gear harness; she remembered Julia’s sulking in the corner that had soured her excitement. 

Each of the cubbies had their last names written on pieces of paper and slotted into little tarnished bronze brackets, alphabetically from left to right. Mercedes’ cubby was second, and though she glanced longingly at the brand-new brown hide jacket and matching boots, she didn’t reach out to touch them for fear of looking weird or worse, sentimental. She turned back to her small navy canvas duffle bag on her bunk, unknotted the drawstring. 

“Ugh, white? Really?” 

Mercedes glanced up at the bunk next to hers, where two girls were standing with their things and looking at the uniforms. 

“That’s going to be so annoying to keep pristine,” said the shorter of the two - the one with her curly blonde hair kept back from her face by two barrettes.

The one with close-cut black hair, taller than Mercedes by an inch or so, scoffed and unbuckled her own bag. “I don’t think you’re going to fucking care much when a Titan’s grabbing at your ankles.”

The blonde turned to the brunette, surprised. “Oh my god you talk like a vagrant.” However there was a slight lilt of delight to her voice as she added, “This will be interesting,” and threw her bag on the top bunk and climbed up.

The brunette scoffed and shared a smirk with Mercedes, who had heard a variety of profanity from an early age from Julia already. “I’m Xiersa Spiegel,” she said as she raised her rather pointy chin. She poked the underside of the blonde’s mattress. “Oi, what’s your name, bunkmate?”

There was an exaggerated sigh from above, and then the blonde and her curls lounged across the rail of the bunk, “Pearl Wren. And you?” she looked pointedly down at Mercedes, as if she’d intruded into Pearl’s space.

“Mercedes,” she said and sat down on her own bunk to untie her boots.

“What, we don’t get a last name?” Pearl quipped. 

Mercedes’ fingers paused, her neck flushing. She felt unexpectedly defensive and fearful at this direct approach, and it took her a moment to decide whether to be blase and honest or clever and dishonest. “Carello, sorry,” she said. 

“Well good, nice to meet everybody,” Pearl quickly grumbled and tipped away out of sight.

“You’re lucky you got a bunk to yourself,” Xiersa said and rolled her eyes. She jerked a thumb at Pearl’s bunk, “I think this one was shipped off by mom and pops.”

There was the slightest of pauses before Pearl said, “Did not. Yours did.”

Xiersa rolled her eyes. “Yeah they did, but at least I’m not butthurt about it. Some parents can’t afford to keep their kids nowadays. And anyway my brother’s in the Scouting Legion, so.”

“Oh good, nice substitute. Hope that keeps you warm at night. Wake me up when the line for the bathroom’s died down.”

Mercedes looked to her left where indeed a line of girls had formed for the bathroom, clutching pajamas and toothbrushes and their faces a mixture of degrees of sullenness, shyness, or hesitant friendliness. Although she knew she had no right to think it, Mercedes felt like she was looking at girls much younger and softer than her - and possibly Pearl and Xiersa too. It was a shock to the system to see their delicate faces and slumped shoulders, their darting eyes - a shock to suddenly think of them as just kids she would have passed on the street only yesterday - to see them as somebody’s daughters. No matter how close she was to Julia, she’d never felt like somebody’s daughter, exactly. Was she really like them? Were they really all in the same boat? She wondered how long any of them would last, here.    
  



	3. The Run

**Chapter 2**

_ Winter, Year 847 _

_ (The next morning) _

 

The cadets were lined up in alphabetical order in three blocks in the center of the training ground before the sun fully made it over the crest of the hill; as the light struck the grass, Miranda smiled at the chaotic stitching made by the cadets’ footprints in the frost - the only evidence of how they’d struggled to get in the right order. She’d make them wait a little longer - until 7AM sharp as promised - despite how pleasing it was to her that they were ready fifteen minutes early. No doubt she had Caleb and Sawa, her Night Wardens who liked to get off their shift early, to thank for that.

_ Rows and rows of them...somebody’s children. Left in my care. How many of them will make it past the second dismissal? Make it to graduation? How many will I send beyond the Wall? How many will make it past the first month out there? How many unmarked graves will there be? _

Miranda left the main window of her quarters on the top floor of the barracks and grabbed her uniform jacket on her way out. Downstairs, Assistant Instructor Mensch handed her the roster from the previous evening and fell into step behind her; his counterparts, Assistant Instructors Sawa and Willoughby, were already outside keeping an eye on their shivering new charges. The cold, when it greeted her outside the barracks, was a forceful but welcome clearing of her lungs. She strode across the frozen painted dirt of the track, which crunched underfoot like gravel, and into the newborn sunshine.

When she reached them, she called out, “Good morning, cadets.”

“Good morning, Chief Carlstedt-Gaus,” rang back at her and echoed off the side of the hill. 

“Your first lesson is one in patience as I go down my roster, I’m afraid, and check everyone’s here whom I’m expecting to be here. Assistant Instructors Mensch, Sawa, and Willoughby here will be keeping an eye on all of you and if anyone fidgets, you’ll pay a price of their choice, are we clear?”

“Yes, Sir!”

She scanned them - all the awkward preteen bodies with slightly-too-big or too-snug jackets - and switched her clipboard into her left hand, and hammered her right fist over her heart. “Salute and hold!”

Far from uniformly, and with a variety of accuracy, the cadets saluted - some rapidly looked down and realized their error, but remained nervously frozen as bade. 

“Hold, mistakes or not,” she warned them again as she lowered her fist. “You will hold until I tell you otherwise.”

She began her rounds through the aisles of fogging breath, silently and firmly correcting salutes with her free hand - she was softer than Shadis in this regard, she knew, but figured their embarrassment was enough reprimand for now and figured the ‘tough’ portion of her tough love would soon become apparent anyway. Though hardly her favorite task, going through the roster and putting names to faces was undeniably useful and allowed her a surprisingly in-depth first impression - she hadn’t believed Shadis when he’d recommended it. It also allowed her to catch siblings that had arrived in place of siblings, or see gaps where kids had chickened out last minute and never got in the wagons. 

There weren’t that many A or B surnames this go round. Miranda corrected the salute of the ridiculously freckled Henri Butcher by turning over his fist, and moved on to the Cs. She stopped short at the name she’d been dreading: Carello, Mercedes.

She didn’t let herself sigh.  _ So you’re really here, she thought. It’s true. Shadis was right. _ Miranda looked up at the girl in front of her. “Mercedes Carello?” she asked, her voice just as bland as it had been with the others.

“Yes, Chief Carlstedt-Gaus.”

A couple of years older than the majority of the new recruits, Miranda’s roster noted. Coppery skin, same height as her at 5’4, and it looked like puberty had hit her like a ton of bricks. A thick braid of inky, curly hair nearly too long to be safe hung down her back; a couple of rebellious strands fell over her forehead. Large dark eyes looked out at her from a diamond-shaped face - her gaze was unassuming, unafraid. Even without verbal confirmation of her identity, her appearance was too distinctive to be mistaken for anything but the Carellos, one of the three bloodlines purportedly descended from the Mediterranean cultural group. 

_ And you expect me to try and hide her, Shadis? _ Miranda thought as she glanced briefly over the girl’s salute, found no flaw, made a checkmark next to her name, and moved on.  _ Isolated as this camp is, her name alone is going to stick out like a sore thumb if any of these kids’ parents told them stories, and then it’s only a matter of time before word gets around. _

She wondered if Carello had any clue about her heritage. Her late entry into the military could indicate her next-of-kin trying to keep her under wraps as long as possible - and even if not, surely she wouldn’t have entered the military at all if she knew the attention it’d draw? On the other hand, perhaps she did know, and her enlistment was in fact the family’s unprecedentedly bold statement of re-emergence? There was no way of knowing, since Miranda had no intention of outright asking.

She stopped in front of the next cadet. “Tybalt Cutter?”

“Yes, Chief Carlstedt-Gaus!”

As she made her checkmark next to Cutter’s name, she glanced out of the corner of her eye at Carello. At least, she supposed, Carello was safer in here than she was out there. That being said - Miranda didn’t know enough about the family to tell who exactly might come looking for her and, therefore, how worth it it was to keep her safe.   
  


* * *

  
It took about an hour to get through all one hundred and thirteen cadets. Miranda had heard Shadis somewhere in the region of two hundred or more on his hands, and chuckled to herself. A few that her Assistant Instructors had caught fidgeting were ordered to get up from their push-ups and stand to attention again; she could see that already they were huffing and puffing and she felt no guilt knowing she was about to make their lives even more miserable.

“All right, good,” she shouted. “Release.”

Arms dropped wearily to sides.

“I expect never to correct you on your salute again, understood?”

“Yes, Sir!”

Miranda paused, walked a little farther back until she was off the track on its outside edge, and up onto a short viewing platform some two meters off the ground. At her beckon, her Assistants herded the cadets off the central training pitch and onto the five thawing lanes of the track, whose salmon-colored clay was now dewy rather than frosty. 

“Once around this track is four hundred meters,” she continued, and tried not to smile at the way some of the cadets’ faces instinctively dropped. “You will run around it five times. Go!”   
  


* * *

_  
It had to be the first clear day in weeks, _ Mercedes reflected for the hundredth time. The midday sun was beating down on the track and all memory of winter was gone. It was the last lap, and she was reduced to heavy panting and staggering steps that barely constituted a jog. She’d never been much of a runner and her shins, knees, hips and lungs were in excruciating pain as a result. Sweat stuck everything to her, and the new boots had broken in her feet more than the other way around.

Around her was carnage. Only a few of them were still attempting to move much less walk or jog, and only four cadets had been running up until this point - two of whom she recognized as Esme and Katka from the night before - but even they had slowed to a half-hearted jog. Everyone else either trudged along the inside lane of the track or had collapsed, or been lapped a few times, or made embarrassed stuttering progress of stop-and-start, stop-and-start. She’d seen a couple of the other kids quickly carried off by the Assistant Instructors for, presumably, medical attention. A few jackets lay discarded on the turf inside the track and even with the breeze - still too weak for Mercedes’ liking - she imagined she could smell the rank odor of adolescent sweat. The track underneath her was scuffed and the freshly-painted white lines had been smudged out on the inner lanes. A mixture of helpless and angry glances were cast the Chief’s way every time her platform was passed.

Worse than the physical exertion was the lack of guidance; Chief Carlstedt-Gaus had refused to provide any directions other than ‘run around it five times’. Was it a race? Were they allowed to stop? Was there a time limit? Were they supposed to keep together? Was it couth to remove one’s jacket? Was there a reward at the end for those who finished or punishment for those who didn’t? What new torture was next? No one knew, and had Mercedes not been among those suffering she would have marveled at the psychological anxiety created over the time spent running due to the unknowns. It felt like a test of some kind but easily could have not been one. 

At last, it was over. Mercedes veered off the track and collapsed to her hands and knees in the patchy, shorn-short mats of browning grass. Although she didn’t want to, she forced herself to breath in deep through her nose and out through her mouth. Her lips were gummy and her mouth parched. There was no shade and not being forced to have the brightness of the sky in her eyeline was welcome; it took her eyes time to adjust to the details of the ground. Her blood roared in her ears. 

_ Maybe this was a mistake, _ she thought, not for the first time. She lifted her head, sat with her trembling legs to one side, looked around for the four runners - not far away Esme and Katka were still standing, albeit the former bent over with his hands on his knees and the latter with her arms crossed over her head. They looked as exhausted as she felt and she was guiltily comforted by it. A weedy auburn-haired boy was another - he has taken off his glasses and was wiping his eyes - while the fourth, a tall brunette, gave a huge sigh and collapsed into a sitting position.

The cadets were not dismissed or even spoken to for another hour; Mercedes saw that Chief Carlstedt-Gaus appeared to be letting latecomers finish, however slowly. Eventually many of the finished cadets started forming groups in the middle ground, silently watching, and eventually too each time there was a new finisher, more and more were they welcomed to those groups with supportive hands or arms. Others nearby still on the track began to notice, and pick themselves up to continue. Those finished noticed this in turn, and more and more were there encouraging words, quietly and isolated at first.

Esme was the first to shout. “Go on! You can do it! All of you!”

A few other cadets began to join in, then more until nearly everyone was egging them on. Those still on the track responded to the encouragement by finding a last dreg of strength from somewhere, and increased their speed; their expressions became more determined too. Within minutes the last few stragglers had finished, even if supported by someone else, and were welcomed onto the middle ground with tired cheers and pats on the back. 

Wary of crowds, Mercedes hung back a little and watched Esme walk around the recent arrivals congratulating them. She thought back to his words the previous night, and smiled. Maybe there was something to them after all. She looked across the track to the Chief’s platform and swore she saw her smile to herself in satisfaction.   
  


* * *

_  
(A week later) _

_ Dear Julia, _

_ How are you? I hope you’re eating and not staying up too late. I miss you, and my room, ha-ha. _

_ The first week here has been more intense than I think either you or I imagined it would be. Chief Instructor Carlstedt-Gaus wasn’t lying when she said she has a reputation for tough love. We assemble at Seven A.M. every morning - and that will apparently roll back to Six A.M. in a few months when there’s more light - after breakfast, which isn’t great but it’ll do. So far they seem to be working on our basic physical fitness first, but next month we have our first of two general gear aptitude tests. They haven’t asked me much about horseriding or medical knowledge or shooting skills, sorry. I guess it’s not important right now. Looks like four other people brought horses with them so at least Sabine’s not by herself. _

_ I’m fitting in okay. I don’t talk to the others much in case they ask my surname, like you said. Luckily I bunk by myself. I get along all right with the other girls in my dormitory but they can get annoying sometimes. Xiersa and Pearl in the bunk next to me are always bickering. Chief C.G. had a crate of nice cotton rags, soap and vinegar delivered to each of the girls’ dormitories - I had to explain to some of the girls that vinegar helps get blood stains out of things - I guess they haven’t started yet. During training, I think we’re all too tired most of the time to fight, but there’s also this guy, Esme Justica, who thinks he’s gonna be the next Commander or something and he’s friends with everyone - he helps us all get along. I don’t get how anyone can be that motivated and friendly all the time but it’s hard not to like him. Who means what they say, anymore? _

_ I’m looking forward to our aptitude tests, and I really like the hand-to-hand fighting. They also have proper weight-lifting stuff, which is a nice change from lifting buckets of nails! I’m glad now that you did what you did, and had me exercise and train a bit already. I hate running, though. Chief C.G. has us run a lap every day, and if you do something wrong she either makes you run another or makes you do chin-ups until you fall down. At least it’s cold right now - maybe by the time the weather gets warmer, we won’t be sweating as much. I can’t help but wonder how many of us will make it through the first dismissal in the spring much less make it through to the end. _

_ Anyway, I miss you. Write soon. _

_ I love you, _

_ Mercedes _

  
_ PS - Chief C.G. said all the girls have to make sure our hair doesn’t go an inch past our bra bands and should never be loose if it’s longer than our chins. I had to trim a couple of inches off mine even with the braid, but I don’t mind. I’d rather not get it ripped out of my head if it were to get caught in the fan blades of our gear. So don’t kill me - it’s just a couple of inches.  _


	4. Fhalz

**Chapter 3**

_ Winter, Year 847 _

_ (One month later) _

 

Mercedes ducked shoulder-first into the tree branches, bare and snow-coated. She landed on the largest of the upper ones, close to the trunk, and disengaged her line. Her breath came out steadily in front of her in a frosty cloud. It was the heart of winter, and the heart of Run A - the largest of the practice runs in the Western Division training camp. 

She peered through the fringe of tiny icicles on the elm twigs at the mock silhouette of the eight-meter Titan a couple of trees away. It hadn’t yet been deployed, but judging by the sounds of her trainee group crashing closer, it wouldn’t be long. 

“Quit stalking, Carello. Just kill it already.”

Mercedes looked down and across at the grumbling voice -  Assistant Instructor Willoughby stood next to an aide holding the ropes for the prop Titan. He smirked up at her before turning back to his clipboard. 

Mercedes’ head jerked back in the direction of the other trainees - she heard the Hirsch siblings screaming excitedly at one another - very close. The prop Titan creaked outward in preparation; Mercedes deployed a line and darted out a second later and bore down on it.

_ Kill with one strike, _ she remembered her grandmother saying.  _ You may not get a second. _

Mercedes tore down toward the ground, her blades parallel to one another as she passed over the prop - they struggled in her grip as they met first the softwood of the nape target, and then the hardwood of the rest of the neck. Wood splintered and the 2D head faltered downward, much to the exasperated cries of Willoughby and the aide. But Mercedes was retracting her line and swinging onward down the winding corridor between the trees.

Shadows on the ground caught her attention; Esme and Katka flew overhead. 

“Too deep!” Katka called to her.

“I want to be sure!” Mercedes shouted back, a little defensive. “I still got the target spot!”

Katka and Esme were far more delicate and precise in dealing with the next two props that came their way. They seemed to flit about like butterflies and their slices were far quicker and more graceful, though Mercedes couldn’t tell how deep they were. They continued down the path together without breaking stride. The Hirsch siblings, Penelope and Eli, were the next to pass her and only just succeeded in striking another latecomer prop. She could see a few other brown jackets gliding through the trees.

Mercedes, taken out of her usual element of stalk and kill, felt a little put out by how much quicker the others in the group seemed to move. Speed was not her strong-point. She clenched her teeth in frustration and deployed first one line and another in an effort to catch up. Her ears were burning from the cold wind.

_ If in doubt, observe,  _ Julia had told her, and Mercedes blinked her cold-dry eyes to refocus.

Five of the ten-strong group - with Esme and Katka in the lead - were following the set path through Run A’s primarily deciduous copse. The usual route, the route they always took.

_ Think,  _ Mercedes told herself.  _ The position of the props always changes, but the terrain never does. They always put the props on this main corridor because they expect us to always use it. If I can use the terrain more effectively… _

She propelled herself upward to the very top of the tree canopy until she could see the corridor, a river of snow, running through the copse. Before gravity began to pull her back downward she located the smaller, paler tributaries to this river and how they formed shortcuts between the bends. Mercedes picked the nearest one and followed it.

. _..then I can achieve better results. _

Icy branches whipped her body and face on account of the narrower passage. It took a little more agility than she was originally expecting to not run into the larger ones, but she managed. She took a lower flight path to go under the canopies and through the trunks instead; through them on her right she could see the glaring white of the main corridor and the swift brown jackets of the other trainees. They were falling behind her as the ground rose in front and to her left to form the rest of the hill on which the training camp sat. A few more line deploys later, and Mercedes had passed them.

She attacked another prop from behind before it was even swung outward, and freefell into the bright open space past the treeline - she felt her braid lift off her back and everything was blissfully quiet apart from the frantic wingbeats of the doves she’d startled. Then she deployed a line, immediately retracting it once it’d impacted a tree trunk ahead; she was taken so low over the ground that her gear skimmed through the fresh snow drifts. 

A pair of Titan props suddenly reared in front of her as she tried to gain height. She let out a surprised noise and veered violently to avoid colliding with the first, deployed a line into it to draw her back to the second beside it, and sliced through the second’s nape. Before Mercedes could deal with the first prop, another trainee had dropped in vertically and done the job for her, and sped away; as Mercedes recovered she saw the weedy auburn-haired boy from the track, who hadn’t looked back.

_ He must have followed my route through the trees,  _ she realized.  _ Stealing my fucking idea. _ A glance behind her showed that the rest of the group was only just catching up around the bend. They hollered when they saw her. Mercedes carried on up the slope - the boy was ahead.  _ He’s fast, too. Scrawny-ass. _ She thought she remembered his last name being Lathan.

The terrain inclined more steeply in this last part of the Run. The finish line of sorts - a wooden scaffold forming the primitive outpost on which Chief Instructor Carlstedt-Gaus sat - was directly ahead against a large sheer wall of the same red clay as the track: a suitable place for them to strike their lines and anchor themselves to at the very end of the assessment. The hundred meters or so between here and there was likely to contain several prop Titans to give them a final challenge.

Mercedes and Lathan both began zigzagging across the pale corridor as they moved from tree anchor to tree anchor; soon a couple other cadets were hot on their heels, and then three more. Mercedes fought to keep her lead, carving viciously through the next prop Titan in her path and not sparing a second glance to see if she’d managed to ‘kill’ it. Lathan slowed when he had difficulty taking down a prop of his own, enabling her to catch up with him - his combat glasses flashed in the sun as he gave her an angry glare, abandoned the prop to another trainee, and pursued her.

The two of them swung outward into the clearing - another two trainees swung overhead. There was a sharp whistle nearby. From the ground below, something erupted upward directly into their flightpath, scattering snow everywhere. 

Mercedes and Lathan nearly collided with the prop Titan - as Mercedes tumbled over its rising shoulder she managed to see the narrow trench in the ground where two aides were levering it upward. Another trainee slashed wildly at the prop in an attempt to look prepared, but only succeeded in nearly hitting the other four of them who were struggling to right themselves. Lathan was the first to deploy his other line and pull himself away, and Mercedes fired her own line into the same tree - a broad-trunked half-dead oak sitting out by itself somewhat away from the other trees. As their lines retracted, she heard laughter behind her and Achtbelt cursing as he landed in the snow with a clatter of gear.

“Shit!”

Mercedes returned her gaze front-and-center. The planks of another prop were right in front of her - Lathan was already bracing for impact. 

Mercedes disengaged her line from the oak and began to fall. “Drop, you idiot!” she yelled at Lathan. She didn’t have the luxury of seeing if he’d listened to her, but judging by the sound of boots on splintering wood he hadn’t.

She fired a line ahead at another tree trunk. It wasn’t tall enough to give her all the recovery height she needed, but did at least soften her fall; Mercedes was then forced into a short run over the frozen topsoil for the lowest part of her arc before swinging herself back upward. She barely avoided colliding with Esme as she made the last two zig-zags to the finishing line, slashing at props as she went.

Dull  _ thwacks _ of lines anchoring themselves in the clay cliff face, followed by the thud of boots and heavy breathing. Katka was already there, followed by Esme and Mercedes. The Hirsch siblings and Lathan landed next. Achtbelt and Markovic trudged through the snow to join them; Mercedes saw Hawking and Oberst bringing up the rear. 

“Good run, good run,” Esme was saying as they caught their breath. “You all right, Lathan? Achtbelt what about you?”

“Down you come, cadets,” Chief Carlstedt-Gaus instructed as she descended the ladder beside her viewing platform.

They did so, and gathered in a loose semicircle in front of her.

“Perhaps the most entertaining part of the entire proceedings was how half of you seemed to think it was a race,” Carlstedt-Gaus drawled and looked down at her clipboard. As her two Assistant Instructors and their aides ran up to join them, she passed the clipboard around for notes to be made. When she got it back, she read it over and surmised, “For all that slashing you did, the only successful kills we have today are: Justica - three, Lathan - one, Hirsch tag-team - one, Carello - two. Seven, out of sixteen targets. Though not bad for your second Run with blades, from the looks of things half of those were sheer luck. This is far below what I expect.  And for all that’s good, Carello, stop destroying my fucking props!”   
  


* * *

_  
Spring, Year 848 _

_ (Four months later) _

 

The weeding-out of the unfit cadets was more depressing than Mercedes thought it would be, even with Chief Instructor Miranda 'Tough-Love' Carlstedt-Gaus. Mercedes had to admire the deft way she first broke the harsh news without batting an eye, offered comfort and encouragement where needed, and returned to professionalism by the time the wagons rolled up to the gate of the Western Division Trainees' grounds. Carlstedt-Gaus continued to have them by the balls even when they were leaving and likely to never see her again – Mercedes could only hope to have that kind of influence one day.

Carlstedt-Gaus had made everyone line up alphabetically either side of the dirt and gravel road that led from the base of the plateau to the bare-bones gate; those who were leaving were in plainclothes and had their drawstring bags with them, having turned in their uniforms and gear the night before. Mercedes scanned the ranks, noticing how those still in uniform already seemed older while those not seemed like the fourteen to fifteen year-olds they were, if not younger. Although the calling-out of those who'd failed had been public, it'd been hard to take in all of the names and Carlstedt-Gaus ran such a tight ship that teasing or even lingering on the subject had been uncommon. Nonetheless, Mercedes was surprised by some who were leaving and some who were staying.

For example, directly across from her – both of them were on the front lines either side of the road – was the weedy pale boy about her height, with glasses and dark red hair. Lathan, she remembered; she remembered too that he'd arrived with a couple of friends and hadn't seemed to acquire any more after he got here. He was still in uniform – he was staying – and she reasoned that maybe those two friends, despite seeming to have gravitated away into other groups, had helped him out.

_ Well, _ she thought _ , this is only the first, en-masse dismissal. There’s three smaller ones to go. Just because he made the first cut doesn't mean he'll last 'til graduation. _

"All right, everyone," Carlstedt-Gaus' voice bled out over the small clearing from where she stood on the small platform over the gate. It had a surprising amount of volume for so small a person. "We're here to say goodbye to some members of our family. Let's hope we all see each other again someday. To those who are leaving us – think of this not as a failure but as a redirection to things better-suited but equally important. You will be feeding us; you will be supporting us; you will be the comfort we seek in the darkest of times and you will be the reason we fight. Never forget that. To those who are staying – do not forget their faces. Do not forget that it is on their shoulders that we are lifted and that makes them no less worthy of praise. We owe them too much for our humble mouths to say." Her voice gained new momentum and volume, "And so! As we part ways, one final salute! To our hearts!" Her right fist struck her chest.

They enthusiastically mimicked her and stood to attention. It was hard not to feel uplifted and some of the cadets were even smiling. After a few moments Carlstedt-Gaus relaxed and they took it as their cue to do the same; the plainclothes cadets – cadets no more, merely citizens – reaffirmed goodbyes made the night before and drifted through those that remained in formation, leaking onto the road and down it, toward their erstwhile Chief Instructor, toward the gate, toward the wagons that waited to carry them away back to their homes and families.

Mercedes only felt a pea-sized amount of envy. Although close to her grandmother and not opposed to her home, she'd spent far too much time with both. Not only had the military been a calling she felt she'd be remiss to ignore, it represented an opportunity to get away, meet people, do something more with herself. She'd been homeschooled and for additional reasons she didn't understand yet, Julia had been reluctant to let her socialize up until now or, at the very least, let others know her full name. It made any in-depth bonding difficult. Although she'd been making up for lost time many of those she'd connected with were now leaving. It was a setback and however much she tried not to take it personally, she felt her stomach sink.

The wagons were almost finished loading; a few cadets had gathered by the gate and the fence to wave them off and Carlstedt-Gaus remained on the platform above, arms folded. Everyone else was beginning to disperse or mingle despite the few cold flecks of rain that left you wondering if someone had spat in your direction. Although Mercedes expected others to gravitate toward her like they often did, today she was left alone and she tried not to feel vulnerable because of it. There was no reason to be, after all. She kicked a stray rock back at the road and stretched her arms above her head.

A glance back at Lathan - his arms had folded and his expression had grown more pensive than usual. His own gaze remained fixed on the gate and his sharp profile was like a blade that warded off anyone nearby.

_ Looks like his buddies are gone, too _ , she realized after scanning the clearing.  _ How does that work? If they helped him, how come they're the ones who were dismissed? _

He continued to just stand there, unmoving. The fresh spring rain was growing heavier. She was fairly certain he hadn't blinked and as she wandered onto the road, a little closer, she could see that his eyes were glazed over. His expression was beginning to tip from severity to dismay in a softening of his frown, a relaxing of his jaw, a slight lowering of the shoulders that had been nearly bunched up around his ears as though cold.

She heard the  _ snap _ of the horses' reins and the crunching lurch of the wagons beginning to roll forward. His head turned ever so slightly to follow their progress and it was then that she felt pity beginning to nibble at her.

"Hey," Mercedes said to get his attention.

It took him a moment to turn to look at her and yet another for his face to grow defensive again. He was rather mean-looking, come to think of it, and though it didn't intimidate her it nearly deterred her from wasting her time on someone so apparently negative. However, she recognized in his eyes the same vulnerability she'd felt only a few minutes ago.

"Your friends get dismissed?" she asked, walking a couple of steps nearer and putting a hand on her hip.

His arms folded more tightly across his chest and he scowled. "What's it to you?"

"I'll take that as a 'yes'," she said. She shrugged. "You just looked like you wished you were on a wagon."

"Bullshit," he spat. "Why the fuck would I want to be dismissed – it's a disgrace. I'd much rather be here where I belong."

Mercedes narrowed her eyes, reconsidering her pity. "Forget I said anything." She turned and walked away, headed back to the zig-zagging path that led up the steep slope to the barracks.

At first she thought it was the rain, but then she realized it was footsteps walking quickly after her – trying to catch up but not wanting to seem like they were trying. Though curious, she wasn't curious enough to slow down.

"I'm Fhalz Lathan," the redhead continued, to her surprise. His voice held an odd note of urgency.

"And?"

He came into her periphery as they started the ascent. "Well, you're Mercedes, right?"

"Yeah?"

"Your friends got dismissed too, huh? That, and I've been watching your work –"

"That's not creepy at all," she interjected to drown how strangely appealing it was to hear him refer to her training as 'work', like it was artistry.

"– and we're pretty equal so far, must mean we were meant to stick together." He said it like a fact. Not a musing, a fact. It was enough for her to slow ever so slightly and let him walk  _ with _ her instead of behind her. The first hairpin turn of the path was a few meters away, guarded by clouds of bright green. "Only those worthy are staying."

"Does it make you 'worthy' to depend on your friends to make sure you don't fall behind?"

He scoffed. "I was the one lapping  _ them _ on the track. Nobody helped me. I would've rejected it anyway. That kind of stuff just makes you soft and weak. They knew what they were getting into and they couldn't handle it - it's best they've been sent home."

"Y'know it's saying shit like that that's probably not winning you any  _ new _ friends, right? You must be the Chief's favorite – so inspiring, so altruistic." Mercedes rolled her eyes, drew ahead again and rounded the curve before him.

"What, and you are?" Fhalz retorted. "Neither of us are here to gratify other people." Again, stated like a fact, not a guess. He was right, of course, but she wouldn't give him that. They walked on for a few more minutes up another leg of the path. At the next turn, he spoke again. "They did leave," he admitted. His voice had become somber and it didn't take much for her to realize it was difficult. "Erkel Meisengrat, Charlie Boxer. I'd known them since we were kids."

"They're not gone forever, you know," she replied, trying to be gentle. She picked her braid up and waved it a little to let air and the cool rain hit the back of her neck.

He hummed and then after a moment, asked, "Yours?"

"What?"

"Your friends."

"Oh." She was genuinely taken aback as it occurred to her that not only did she know a mere handful of first names even after all this time, but she hadn't known any of them before she enlisted. "A lot of them left," she answered noncommittally with a shrug.

He pushed air loudly through his nose, "I guess you're never gonna be the type to have trouble making friends." There was derision in his voice, but it was more of an envy than sarcasm.

"But they weren't anybody I knew well, like you did," she admitted in return. "I didn't know anyone when I got here."

"I guess we're really equal now, then, in that case."

"Don't push your luck, Lathan."

"It's my favorite sport, seems like."

She finally cracked a smile. "You, sport? If the wind up here gets much stronger it might blow you off the slope."

She heard rather than saw his own smile. "Good thing our line of work prefers you to be quick to fly."

"I guess we'll have to see tomorrow who's faster, huh?"

"I suppose we will," Fhalz agreed.


	5. Searching

**Chapter 4**

_ Spring, Year 848 _

 

It was hot for spring - hot enough that Miranda had allowed the cadets to keep their jackets off for today’s training, which was primarily physical- rather than gear-based. She fanned herself with her clipboard as she left the smell of adolescent sweat for her viewing platform on the side of the track; having just finished a brief rest to rehydrate from their run, the cadets were dispersing into their assigned pairs for hand-to-hand combat. They would be under the coaching of the Sawa husband and wife team, who were far better at hand-to-hand than Miranda had ever been even in her prime. 

After a moment’s thought, she paused Ysobel before she passed her. “Tell them whoever’s left standing gets to pick the flavor of the next group birthday cake.” She smiled at Ysobel’s snort of disbelieving laughter and moved on.

They were still just kids, after all. Kids that had been with her for six months already. Unlike other divisions she did not let her cadets go home even once for their entire two-year stay, and consequently she worked harder on building camaraderie here instead. Although many disputed her methods - calling her cruel and too coddling in equal measure by peers and parents alike - she’d found that Western Division graduates seemed to learn loyalty and teamwork much quicker than others, and there was a vicious sort of tenacity that grew in them that she liked. Only natural, when you had a second family to belong to that you’d cried and bled and succeeded with. 

Miranda sat down in her chair behind the row of neatly-folded and -piled jackets and drank the water she hadn’t gotten to earlier. The paper in her lap was blinding in the sun, so she didn’t look at it just yet, instead scanning the seventy-strong group taking their opening stances on the dirt bright as the freshly-split flesh of a grapefruit. After a few minutes of stretching and orders from the Sawas, the pairs began warming up; a few minutes more and they’d hit their stride, and even with some of the more distant pairs it was easier for her to pick out the promising ones.

_ Damson, Carello, Spiegel and Gardener are by far top-tier right now. Likely have prior experience - raised on the street, rough older siblings, military parents, something like that… Maybe Jack was right and we should start placing bets on how many bones get broken between them. _

“Chief-Instructor?”

Miranda turned her head, looked down at the base of the platform where one of her guards stood beside, interestingly, a Military Police soldier. She didn’t disguise her small frown - she wasn’t expecting guests - and did not stand.

“This is Captain Ronan,” said the guard and nodded at the far taller and broader man beside him. “He’s been -”

“I’ve been tasked by the Interior with inspecting all of our training sites,” Ronan interrupted and stepped forward, a little in front of the guard. He did not salute. He was younger than her, and his hands were behind his back but otherwise, his movements were languid, almost bored, and his tone was imperious. “I’ve come to discuss the visiting schedule with you.” All of it suggested he had little care for her rank or age, and not out of ignorance.

“I wasn’t informed of such an inspection, much less a series of them,” Miranda said, and still did not rise.

“Part of the point, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Watch your tone, son,” she said with a tip of her head. “Why don’t you tell me who at ‘the Interior’ ordered this? I don’t take kindly to unannounced visitors that may disturb my cadets’ routine.”

Captain Ronan smiled to himself and joined her on the platform. She refused to be intimidated and remained sitting. “I was told that any concerns from the Chief Instructors should be directed to Commander Dawk.” He pulled out a trifold of white parchment from an inner jacket pocket and handed it to her.

Miranda rolled her eyes and unfolded it, scanning the short notice that told her little more than what Ronan already had. It had indeed been signed by Dawk. She sighed, folded it, and handed it back. “Fine. But I don’t see why more than one visit a year is necessary. We haven’t had one in the seven years I’ve been here.”

“At minimum I will be visiting this compound every Thursday for the next month, possibly more if needed,” said Ronan. “The goal is to get a holistic picture of each Division’s training methods. I’m here to observe. Beyond that, I do not know.”

Miranda regarded him for a few moments in silence. At least he was good at blocking out the sun. There was little she could do about this, she supposed, as strange as it seemed. Sometimes it was easier to take the path of least resistance. “Then I guess we’ll see you tomorrow, Captain.” She picked up her clipboard and readjusted her glasses to resume work in his shadow.

“I’ll require an enlistee roster, if you don’t mind.”

She looked up at him over the rims of her glasses. “I do mind. Your illustrious leaders haven’t supplied that for you already?”

He had the good sense to pretend to indulge her. “I believe them to be out of date - we only have a roster of who  _ intended _ to enlist, rather than those who actually reported for duty.”

Miranda sighed again and waved an arm by way of agreement and dismissal, and luckily the guard had enough wherewithal to take over with a, “If you please, Captain, we can supply the rosters at our office.”

“Until tomorrow then, Chief-Instructor.”

His weight made the boards of the platform creak as he descended; his shadow left her and the sun resumed its enthusiastic broiling of her body. The words swam on the page in front of her but she wasn’t reading them anyway - rather, still slightly put on edge by this new and sudden inspection for a reason she couldn’t pinpoint. She decided to ask Shadis that evening when they met at the Trost HQ for reporting - maybe the Southern Division were receiving inspections, too, and it was nothing to worry about.   
  


* * *

  
“Stop bragging, Miranda,” Shadis groaned into his brandy, but he had to admit that the sound of her laughter bouncing off the walls of the office was welcome after listening to so much cadet whinging the past few months. It was just the two of them - he could allow himself to relax somewhat.

“I can’t help it,” she shrugged and readjusted her lean against the windowframe, “It’s a good batch. They keep challenging one another and fighting and singing - they’re all lunatics, really. I’ll be sad to let go of some of them in the Fall.” She laughed again. “You’ll love this: there’s two of them, right - Lathan and Carello - and they think I don’t notice but they’ve started training themselves to be ambidextrous. Just to fuck with the other ones.”

He had to appreciate that, and smirked. He refilled her glass and joined her at the window overlooking Trost at nightfall. He remembered the last time they were here. “Carello’s still there, then. Nothing unusual?”

Her glass hovered by her face, which gradually fell. “Actually, there is something I wanted to ask you, and now I know why. Have you heard anything about a series of compound inspections starting?”

Shadis shook his head once.

“I had a visit from Captain Ronan, Dawk’s subordinate. Apparently my compound is to be visited every Thursday for the next month, possibly more. ‘To get a holistic view of each Division’s training methods’. And he asked for my updated cadet roster.” Miranda sipped her brandy, squinted at it. “It might be nothing. I just can’t help but wonder at the timing: I just had my First Dismissal - maybe some of those I dismissed talked about there being a Carello in there.” She sipped again, rested the glass on the windowsill. She let out a good-natured groan, “You’re turning me into a conspiracy theorist!”

Shadis thought this information over. “It couldn’t hurt to be cautious.”

She eyed him. “What did you have in mind?”

“What if Carello is not present on Thursdays?”

“He has the roster, Keith.”

“Tell him it was a misprint when he gets there tomorrow.”

“And where do you propose she goes? Do I just hide her in the cellar with the turnips?” Miranda smirked. “Are you really still so hell-bent on repaying a debt?”

“I couldn’t tell you why, but unfortunately I am,” he grumbled and finished off his glass, leaning over to set it on his desk beside the small bottle. He thought for a moment, about Joaquin Carello and how he’d been called to identify his body when they dragged him out of the river - about how Mercedes was either his niece or daughter. “How about this: every Thursday, send her to me. She can train with my lot. We send her back Friday evening. It’s a bit late for her to leave for Trost tonight so you’ll have to do something else with her tomorrow, but next week we start.” It sounded stupid voicing it, but he couldn’t help it.

“And the excuse we give her, or anyone else?” Miranda asked. At least she hadn’t outright refused, he supposed.

“Do we need one?”   
  


* * *

  
The next morning Mercedes was surprised to be intercepted after breakfast by Assistant Instructor Mensch, who instructed her on behalf of the Chief to go to the armory instead of the training ground with the other cadets. When she ventured to ask why, Mensch merely shrugged and said that the Chief wanted every rifle cleaned and inventoried, considering it hadn’t been done in a while and Mercedes seemed to be the only cadet with experience with guns.

Mercedes jogged through the steady rain, dodging puddles established last night during a more intense deluge, and counted herself grateful that she wouldn’t have to be out in this all day. The armory was located at the front of the plateau at the entrance to the compound - a barn-like building of sun-grayed wood where they stored both their gear, their gas, and their rifles. One of the large doors slid on its well-oiled rail with satisfying momentum and a  _ clunk _ , allowing her into the dry, and she slid it shut behind her. The large space became refreshingly quiet - even with the slightly chemical smell of the compressed gas and the oil for the gear spools, it was a comforting place to her.

Directly in front of her were the rows of short shelves containing the blade scabbard-boxes, and their disconnected pistons pointed upward like questioning fingers at the rail of hooks above it, on which hung the coordinating spools and firing handles; on the far right were the crates of gas tankards half-covered with tarp. Mercedes headed left, however, to the stairs beside the service elevator that would lead her down to the basement. Her boots tapped a calm rhythm over the wood floor. 

“That you, Carello?”

It took her a moment to place Warden Caleb’s voice, even moreso because it came from up the stairwell and between the floorboards. “It is, Sir.”

“Good, get your butt down here so we can get going,” he said, but not unkindly. 

Mercedes took the open-rise stairs down with a rhythmic  _ tot-tot, tot-tot _ into the cool of the basement, whose six oil lamps hanging from the rafters were lit and bathing the entire space in waxy gold. Down here, it smelt like gunpowder - a smell from childhood that she secretly loved.

Warden Osten Caleb was the oldest of the Assistant-Instructors - a role he took part-time in favor of his actual role of night warden alongside Warden Sawa. Mercedes was fairly certain he’d retired from the Scouting Legion and had a tired, bleak demeanor to prove it. She tried to guess what mood he was in as she crossed the room to where he stood in one corner, hands on hips looking at the gun racks on the longest, farthest wall. His uniform jacket was off - on the back of a chair far too small for him or it with a pack of cigarettes and a lighter on the seat - and the sleeves of his orange shirt were already rolled up to his elbows. 

“Sir,” she acknowledged as she got close. 

He glanced briefly at her, as if he needed to verify her voice belonged to a body. “All right then. I figured we’ll start by organizing and cleaning up, then move on to counting and cleaning the actual guns. The Chief mentioned you’re familiar with rifles?” he looked back at her skeptically. One bushy eyebrow rose. “How’s that?”

Mercedes blinked at him, cautiously removed her jacket and hung it on the back of another chair since she figured he wouldn’t mind. “Grew up around them,” she said. “My grandmother taught me to shoot with a bow and arrow when I was five, so I could aim by the time she let me shoot proper when I was eight. Before then she taught me how to take them apart, clean them, and put them back together. We just...always had guns in the family.” She suddenly recalled a faint memory of her parents: one where they were riding away from the house - their first house, an even fainter memory still - on horseback with two rifles apiece, one in a saddle-holster and one across their backs.

Warden Caleb nodded to himself as if he approved. “You trying to get into the MPs when  you graduate or something?” He began to move one of the two long, heavy wooden tables running parallel to the gun racks, and she helped him. If he was surprised by her strength, he made no comment.

“I’m not sure yet, Sir, but I don’t think so.” She was hoping this would elicit a comment from him, perhaps in the form of an anecdote from his experiences - if he really had been in the Legion - but none came.

They moved the next table with the other to one side of the room, swept the floor, dusted and wiped down everything else and swept again, moved the tables back, organized misplaced ammunition and parts. The next four hours were spent in companionable quiet as they counted everything in the basement, down to the bullet; at the end of each of those hours Warden Caleb would go onto the stairwell to have a cigarette, which was how she kept time. They then unrolled an old dingy painter’s cloth over the two tables, took out the crate of cleaning supplies and set it on the ground in the middle, and laid out all the rifles in a row. Warden Caleb started at one end of the tables, and Mercedes started at the other - taking each rifle apart, cleaning it, and putting it back together, one by one.

She wanted to ask him why she had been sent down here - or, at the very least, why hadn’t a second person been sent, too - but there was a combination of feeling impudent and not wanting to break the soothing quiet. As they steadily drew closer together, like a candle burning at both ends, she worked up the nerve.

“Sir, do you know why it was me who was sent down here?”

He hummed to himself and eventually it formed words. “From what you’ve told me it seems like it’s because of your experience with them.”

“I mean why  _ just _ me,” she corrected gently. “Between us it wouldn’t have taken long to get a second cadet up to speed.”

There were a few long moments of nothing but the steady  _ tink, shick-shick-shick, crick-click, clack, thud _ of Warden Caleb cleaning the rifle.

“Sir?” she prompted quietly, and regretted it.

“Shall I give you some advice, Carello?” he suggested, not looking at her.

Mercedes remained silent.

He put the rifle back together, moved on to the next. “The first would be that sometimes, it’s better to not question your superiors’ intentions. Worry about your own intentions - they’ll be what you’re judged by when you go to meet your maker. Should always focus on what you  _ can _ control rather than what you  _ can’t _ .”

“Yes, Sir,” she said, in more of a whisper than she’d intended. She was surprised most of all by this strange, half-mentorly outpouring. He wasn’t known for being verbose much less personable. 

“And the second would be…” he trailed off, seemed to consider his words. His white mustache twitched. His voice had the smallest plea in it as he said, “Don’t join the Military Police. Just trust me. You won’t like what awaits you there, if you go.”

“Were you part of the Military Police?” she couldn’t help but ask.

“No. But I know it’s no place for you.” At her frown he added, more cheerily with a poke of a finger at the ceiling, “Just like up top wasn’t the place for you today, eh?” but the humor was gawdy on him, and fell flat. “Now hurry up and finish what you’ve got there and we’ll stop for lunch.”

Mercedes fiddled with the ram rod in her blackened hands, glanced at the two rifles she had left. She put it down, picked up the loose end of the rag hanging from her belt to clean grease out from under her nails. Without looking up, she pressed, “What about the Scouting Legion? Is that the place for me?” She didn’t know why she felt like Warden Caleb was a fortune-teller all of a sudden or, at the very least, a window into the future even if it wasn’t hers exactly.

When he didn’t respond Mercedes looked up, thinking she’d finally overstepped her bounds. She had. But not in the way she expected: Warden Caleb had frozen and was looking out into the room, his eyes glazed over and wet. He was shaking, and it was growing stronger. Mercedes felt a pang of alarm and the rag slipped from her fingers. He did not respond to verbal prompts, but began whispering to himself - as Mercedes stepped carefully closer she heard him:

“Teeth, teeth, teeth…”

She reached out a hand and touched his shoulder; he jerked and snatched her arm, his wide-eyed gaze flying to her as if she were a Titan. It took a moment for the terror to depart, but Mercedes got the impression he was still seeing something other than her. 

“A field of teeth, lined up for ye’ like gravestones. Smiling.” He pulled on her arm as his body threatened to buckle and sink to the floor. His head dropped.

Mercedes latched onto him, pushed her face close to his. “Warden,” she said firmly despite the goosebumps on the back of her neck.

“A Warden who stands over the dead and the dying,” he whispered.

“I am not dead,” Mercedes said, without knowing why but having the feeling he needed to hear it. “I am not dead.” She squeezed his arms.

At last he seemed to calm, and looked up at her. He searched her face; the pity and regret in his own alarmed her more than anything else, even after - apparently not finding what he searched for - he composed himself, released her, and turned to his cigarettes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Note from the Author: Captain Ronan belong to Wings of Wax, who has generously let me borrow him from our collab fic 'Sutures et le Sucre' for this cameo.


	6. Charms

**Chapter 5**

_ Spring, Year 849 _

_ (One week later) _

 

Mercedes stalked into the training ground. She scanned the Southern Division cadets, who had already begun their morning routines and - to her confusion - still numbered over a hundred at least. Considering her division had only seventy now, she wondered how many there’d been in this division to start with or whether Chief Instructor Shadis had different dismissal methods. It remained a mystery to her why she'd been 'borrowed' from her own division and whether it came from either of the Chief Instructors or from higher up, but she was determined to make the most of it.

She strode directly for a tall man that looked like he’d been wrought rather than aged, who could only be Chief Instructor Shadis. She’d never met him before but she had heard rumors and Carlstedt-Gaus had confirmed them with her comment to ‘always be ten minutes early and don’t stare at him too long - he doesn’t like that’. 

He spotted her; she tried not to flinch under the piercing gaze. "Carello, you're late!" he barked.

"With due respect, Sir," Mercedes called as she got closer, "you asked for me to be here at 9:15AM. If you check your watch I’m sure you’ll find I’m early." She saluted, "Mercedes Carello, Sir, reporting from the Western Division." 

How it was possible she wasn't sure, but the wrinkles in Shadis' forehead deepened and his eyes seemed to sink even farther back in their sockets. "I didn't ask for a visiting smartass," he bellowed. "Any more of that shit and I'll make you climb the Wall with nothing but a spoon! Are we clear?" He did not, however, look at his watch.

"Yes, Sir."

He started to wildly gesture and scream random noises at the other trainees, and they jogged the distance to get closer. 

Mercedes turned to face them, letting a careful but assured smile sit on her lips, and held her wrists behind her back. She felt buoyed-up by her experiences with the Western Division and the confidence they engendered in each other - she reflected that a few months ago she never would have felt this comfortable with being the center of attention. The Western Division had brought out a fairly competitive streak in her, particularly when it came to defending her ‘rank’ in the things she was good at - she met the crowd of curious stares with a challenging gaze and started to form assumptions of each of them. Most looked softer than she anticipated. 

"Trainees, we have a guest. Every Thursday and Friday Mercedes Carello of the Western Division will be training with you. Now get back to it!" 

The group scattered again. Mercedes was expecting a little more direction, but supposed she could manage without it. After all, her division by this point didn’t need much input from Instructors. She wandered forward; a glance behind her showed Shadis taking up an unusual post – at the sidelines. No doubt to watch her effect on the group, she assumed, but couldn't guess the desired result. She rolled her shoulders.

There were thirteen of them in the immediate area, working on hand-to-hand combat in pairs as far as she could tell. Other Southern Division trainees were running laps around the field. She wondered if the spare trainee had been deliberately allocated to match her – a smiling girl about her age with two black pigtails, maybe her height but frailer-looking.

"Good, a nice warm-up," Mercedes said to herself and headed for her.

 

Nearby, Jean caught Reiner and Connie’s conversation:

"Is that... _ sauntering _ ?" Connie said. “She’s sauntering. Like this is the fucking park.”

"Looks like the new girl’s got her sights set on Mina," Reiner noted with a sympathetic expression. "I feel bad that Mina drew the short straw."

"Maybe it'll turn out okay!" Connie suggested. “Mina’s pretty good.”

"Springer! Braun! You can gawp when you're dead!" Shadis yelled from a distance.

Between dodging Marco's punches, Jean stole glances at the new girl, Mercedes, as she and Mina introduced themselves and began to spar. A thick rope of glossy dark hair knocked against the lighter brown of her uniform jacket, which sat over a rust-colored shirt; with her tanned skin she looked like the ground underfoot had risen and was moving. She was pretty short, likely their age, and he couldn't yet decide whether she was curvy or stocky.

Marco scored a punch to Jean's chin, jerking him back to attention.

"Shit! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to actually hit you," Marco froze, his expression  ridiculously worried.

Jean rubbed the spot. "Don't apologize. I should've been paying attention."

"Why do you think she's here?" Marco asked, looking over at Mercedes as they backed away from each other and sank into starting positions.

"No idea."

Though they resumed their spar, Jean soon realized that after a while, he wasn't the only one that kept looking over at the fight between Mina and Mercedes; Marco's moves were slowing down too, as were those of first one pair, then another.

Their spar would start off fair, with the more basic moves, then Mina would try something different or more advanced and Mercedes would easily counter it for a little while, mostly on the defensive. Then, it seemed as though Mercedes got bored – she'd pull back in some way, and rapidly follow it with a single move consisting of a lot of brute force, usually resulting in Mina being overpowered or knocked to the ground. It became predictable to watch.

Luckily Mina handled it good-naturedly, as was her habit, and neither did Mercedes seem to be a bad sport – she smiled, even laughed a little or gave an encouraging word or humbled herself – but Jean couldn't ignore the simple fact that she wouldn't go easy on her or at least act less bored when she was ready to strike her down. Mina wasn't their best hand-to-hand fighter, but this was making her look worse than she was.

Unconsciously, the other pairs were drawing nearer. Shadis didn't seem to notice or if he did, he didn't say anything.

"Break, maybe?" he heard Mercedes suggest.

Mina smiled. "For a minute. Maybe you'd be better matched with one of the others!"

"I can help you put more force behind your blows," Mercedes offered. "It's no trouble."

"I'll give it a shot."

Jean and the others looked over at Reiner's voice as he closed in on the two young women. He couldn't help but smirk - the brusque blond was taller than almost all of them, and easily the biggest.

"Yeah! Go Reiner!" said Sasha, jabbing a fist into the air.

However, it irritated Jean to find that rather than intimidated, Mercedes merely happily held out her hand to him. "Carello," she said. She had a smile on her face that Jean didn't like, even though she was having to look up to look Reiner in the eye.

"Braun," Reiner replied as he took her hand. Oddly, neither let go; their grip was tighter than Jean thought it needed to be. It was only when he saw a matching smile on Reiner's face that he realized something had been communicated wordlessly. "Shadis said you Western Division guys are just a bunch of cocky airbags."

“Wanna see if he’s right?” she quipped. Jean didn’t like that either.

The pair backed up. The bulk of Reiner hunkered down a little, his elbows bent and fists raised. Mercedes did the same, but with her head cocked a little as though noticing something intriguing about her new partner.

Reiner began to circle, causing the others to back up. "Quick tip – you probably shouldn't rely on brute strength alone," he said.

"Of course not," she said, and the shrug was there in her voice even if her shoulders didn't move. Her eyes were still fixed on somewhere other than his face.

Reiner came in from her right with a low blow directed at her ribcage, and thus the dodging of blows began. Neither did anything fancy, but the power behind both of their strikes was obvious - the impacts louder than spar-blows, teeth gritted, the occasional grunt and growl. Dust was churned into the air. It went on for another minute before Jean noticed the same fleeting bored expression on her face. 

_ No, not bored - disappointed, _ he thought.

Mercedes stepped just far enough out of Reiner's circle so that he toppled past her a little. Before he could regain momentum Mercedes struck her heel into the back of his knee. His leg caved; she gave his back another shove with her foot for good measure and sent him onto his hands. She aimed another kick from underneath at his throat and stopped just short. Reiner froze until she retracted her foot.

"Nice," he admitted, getting to his feet but still crouched low. Suddenly he lunged at her legs and picked her off her feet; Mercedes dangled awkwardly. Reiner felt it safe to laugh and a couple of others joined in.

Jean had just cracked a grin when Mercedes violently jerked her entire body: she pulled herself upright using her torso alone – one hand pushed Reiner’s head back with a violent shove on his forehead, and her other hand was poised with two blunted knuckles directly in front of his eyes. The laughter was shut off abruptly.

"Also helps to assess your opponent. I'm sure you were going to touch on that next," Mercedes smiled. After a pause, she said, "Can you put me down, now?"

Reiner put her down and, as Mina had done, began to good-naturedly laugh - shortly the others joined back in. Jean could not. Did anyone else find her annoying? Didn't anyone else find this weird?

"I'm not beating you into shape to laugh! Laps, all of you!" Shadis' voice shattered the air.  
  


* * *

  
Mercedes' visits continued for several more weeks. She would arrive at the training ground when they did every Thursday morning, and participate as if she was one of their own. She even had her own bunk with them. Jean was frustrated by the fact that no new information had emerged as to why this was even happening, but mostly because almost everyone loved her. He couldn't understand why. She had this nauseating mix of abrasion and charisma that seemed to have cast a spell over the others – one minute she was helpful or humble, the next she was insulting and superior. And they ate it up. She deferred to Reiner, supported Eren, laughed with Connie and Sasha, could hold an actual conversation with Armin, brought Bertholdt out of his shell a little… Even Annie treated her with indifference rather than callousness. It was infuriating. He wondered if this was just her or whether all of the Western Division was like this.

Right now, for example. It was Friday; Mercedes would stay the Friday night before making her way back to Klorva the following morning. They'd just finished dinner and remained in the canteen like usual. Mercedes was sitting on a table with a small group around her, telling a story to h er rapt listeners about  sighting a rifle, about the importance of killing with one strike. Jean sat with Marco, and after trying in vain to hold his attention to their own conversation, had put his head glumly on his arms on the table while Marco craned his neck to listen to her. Every so often around the room Jean would hear,

"Hey 'Cee, what about…"

"'Cee, do you…"

"Maybe 'Cee knows…"

"'Cee…"

"…'Cee"

Jean narrowed his eyes and tried to shut out the sound of their quickly-adopted nickname for her. It bounced around in his skull like a marble.

Jean prided himself on not being fooled. He kept thinking of that bored, disappointed expression he'd seen on her face mid-spar that first time she visited, and the way it sometimes seemed that she was holding back. Everyone seemed to be cozying up to her but they didn't actually know a lot about her. She gave them just enough to keep them interested, but the reality was that she was aloof and didn't volunteer much personal information. Jean was surprised no one else seemed to want to see it.

Not to mention that he was convinced Mercedes often concealed her ability. They had no way of knowing where she stood with the rest of the Western Division in terms of skill, all rumors about them aside, but she definitely kept up with the Southern Division. Yet he'd seen many times where she wasn't tired but claimed she was, or deliberately miss-stepped so someone else could score a hit, or even outright lied to Shadis about an end result. There was no reason to do it and it made him uncomfortable. Only when their training was done and the rankings came out would they know for sure. So far he'd managed to be the only one who hadn't paired up with her in training, but maybe it was time to change that.

He looked up as the group around her burst into laughter. He scoffed. "This is so stupid."

Marco turned. "What?"

"Nothing," Jean mumbled.

"No, really, what is it?" Marco turned his entire body to give Jean his full attention. "You've been really sullen the past couple of weeks. It's not like you. You won't even make fun of Eren like you usually do."

Jean rested his gaze on Mercedes. Even the way she subconsciously plucked at the collar of her black T-shirt pissed him off. "I don't get it. Why am I the only one who doesn't find this suspicious?" he opened a palm in her direction.

"What, Mercedes?"

"Yeah. Don't you find it strange that we still don't know why she comes to train with us? No one else does that, and it’s not like one of us goes over there. She shows up, everyone quickly decides she's awesome even though she insults everyone every chance she gets and lets them win if she's not humiliating them, thinks she knows everything but tricks everyone into thinking she's humble…"

"You're not making any sense, Jean," Marco chuckled a little.

Jean sat up. "Augh, she's tricking all of you."

"Maybe she's a little rough around the edges, but that doesn't mean she's a bad person or tricking us, come on," Marco tried to reason. "And she herself said she doesn’t know why she’s here either. Maybe you're feeling jealous?"

"Absolutely not."

"What's going on over here?"

Mercedes stood at the end of their table, smiling curiously and a hand on her hip. Jean wondered how much she'd heard, then assured himself that he had no reason to feel intimidated. He glanced at Marco, who was blushing.

Jean sneered at him and began, "Are you actually –"

"H-Hi 'Cee," Marco cut him off. "Nothing much really. How, how are you? Great point about killing with one strike," he stammered.

_ Oh god, Marco, no. Please don't be her number-one fan, _ Jean thought.

"I'm good Marco, thanks," she said annoyingly politely. Jean almost succumbed to childish mimicking before he stopped himself. "It occurred to me that we don't really talk much, the three of us."

"Maybe that's because we don't want to talk to you," Jean said.

Mercedes' warm brown eyes became hard, pinning him in place. "Speak for yourself, maybe, Jean? It's not polite to put words in other people's mouths."

"Well it's not polite to trick people either."

"'Trick people'? How exactly am I tricking people?" she folded her arms.

"Jean, come on, this isn't fair…" Marco began.

Jean gave a huff of laughter, "Where do I even begin."

Mercedes put both hands on the table edge and leaned forward; the position raised the large knots of her shoulders like those of a cat waiting to pounce and defined the muscle in her arms moreso than normal. She put her face that consisted mostly of cheekbone in front of his. "Pick a spot and go," she said lowly. Her braid slipped over her shoulder and swayed a little before stopping. It felt like the entire room was staring at them.

"Why don't you tell us why you're here?" he managed, trying to project his voice around her. For so small a person she sure did manage to take up a decent amount of room.

"I told you, I don't know," she said. "I'm just following orders like everyone else."

"Then what about –"

A resounding  _ crash _ drew their attention to where Connie had fallen off his stool. The others began to laugh.

Mercedes stood upright and walked away, calling back, "Maybe you'll be fit to judge me when you finally get around to fighting me, Kirstein. I promise I'll play nice."

Once she was out of earshot Jean glared at Marco. "It would have been nice if you could've stopped staring down her shirt long enough to back me up, Marco," he clipped.

"I'm sorry, it was just  _ right there _ ."

Jean sat back and sulked. Now he really would have to spar with her.  
  


* * *

_  
(The next day) _

 

“Welcome home.”

Mercedes looked over her shoulder at the entrance to Sabine’s stall; Esme had propped himself against the frame, his arms folded and his eyes squinting at the honey-colored evening light coming in through the window above her. In that light he himself was a statue of gold and it wasn’t hard to see why so many of the girls swooned when he was around - she prided herself on being one of the few who could remain immune to his charms and he, in turn, remained immune to her own. 

She finished unbuckling Sabine’s saddle. “Hey, Esme.” She heaved it onto the side of the stall with a _ whump _ . “Surprised Katka’s not with you.” The two of them had recently become romantically involved, and over the past month their displays of affection - outside of training, of course - had grown more frequent and public since it was never much of a secret to begin with.

“She’s helping round up laundry for tomorrow. Still showing them what’s what over there at the Southern Division barracks?” His voice was an affectedly-tired drawl that made him sound like he’d woken from a good nap though, if Mercedes remembered the schedule correctly, he’d likely just come from a run.

She shrugged. She wasn’t sure if that was what she was doing over there. “Yeah, I guess.”

“I haven’t got round to asking you before, but: what are they like? Like us, or?”

“Different in a lot of ways. Eccentric. Haven’t gelled like we have, yet.” As she ran through the new faces she was learning, Mercedes pulled off Sabine’s saddle blanket and cast it aside. She laughed to herself. “The biggest one I’ve come across - sparred with him the other day - he said we’re just a bunch of cocky airbags.” 

He chuckled with her, “Well we are, kinda. With good reason! Whatever we need to do, y’know.” She heard Esme suck his teeth, followed by the  _ shush _ of his boots walking forward through the scattered hay. “Anyway, you’re the last one I haven’t talked to.”

“What about?” Mercedes unfastened the bridle, gave Sabine a stroke down her nose before hanging it up. She grabbed a coarse-bristled hand-brush off the window sill and crouched to clean caked-on mud off hooves.

Esme hesitated a moment before answering. “A lot of us - majority of us now, really - are thinking of joining the Scouting Legion when graduation comes round.” He sounded pleased with this admission. His voice lowered, however, when he continued, and she brushed more softly to hear him. “We want to make a difference - I think that’s more likely if a group like us sticks together, joins together, keeps together. Each of us has so much to offer.”

She looked up at him from under raised eyebrows.“You sound like you’re running for office.”

He shook his head and shrugged, as if the thought had never occurred to him. “Nah, I just really think we stand a chance. We’ve got a good thing going here.” After another thoughtful pause, he crouched next to her. The look he gave her was genuine curiosity and, unexpectedly, slightly anxious. “So what do you say, ‘Cee? Believe me? You coming with us? I could really use your help.”

“I doubt you’d need  _ my _ help, Es’.”

“I will. I know you don’t like the idea, but you’re a leader too. We’ve got to look after each other.”

Esme smiled his trademark easy smile which, despite her best efforts, she couldn’t be cynical about. She believed him. But she also saw Warden Caleb doubling over, muttering ‘teeth lined up like graves’ to himself - how it had looked like he didn’t believe her when she said she wasn’t dead.

“‘Cee?”

She pushed the thought away, smirked lazily back at him, mirrored his charm. “Ask me again when we’re graduating. I won’t really know until it’s time.”


	7. A Waste of Gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Note from the Author: Please be warned - for those of you sensitive to such material, ahead there are brief descriptions of torture/rape. Read responsibly.

**Chapter 6**

_ Summer, Year 849 _

 

It was evening by the time Mercedes and Assistant-Instructor Willoughby trotted through Trost’s inner gate. The locals who had thronged the streets for business were now few and far-between, and on their way home instead; they slowed their horses to a walk as they wove their way to the halfway point, like they did every Wednesday.

Mercedes knew Jack Willoughby fairly well by this point - he was always the one to bring her from the Western Division compound over the bulk of the journey to Trost, and hand her off to the supply wagon that then rode the rest of the way to the Southern Division compound; he’d be waiting for her Saturday morning to bring her back. She knew he had a family in Trost, but had taken the job in Klorva since it was the first one to become available. She knew Carlstedt-Gaus hired him because he was good with gear training, and that a heart condition had prevented him from taking on any more strenuous duties, such as front-line work. 

The hospital was up ahead on the right, a block or so away and its facade lit yellow by the setting sun. In its shadow stood the Southern Division covered supply wagon.

“Hey kid - I can trust you to go the rest of the way, can’t I?” Willoughby had his horse stamping its feet on the turn-off to his street. “Not gonna bolt on me, are you?” he gave her a wry look through his dirty-blond curls. They had had the same conversation the past three weeks.

“No, Sir,” she answered, and dismounted from Sabine to hand her reins to him like always - he kept Sabine here in Trost until they were ready to go back.

“Didn’t think so. Off you go. Have fun.” He turned down the street and was lost to view.

Mercedes walked the rest of the way, not quite dawdling but not hurrying, either, so that she could enjoy this brief window on normal life outside the compound. She breathed deeply the smells of dinner cooking, woodsmoke, even laundry drying; she surreptitiously peeked into gardens and up at roof terraces to trace the sounds of children playing or adults arguing; she trailed a hand along a wrought-iron fence whose flaking paint came away on her fingers. Through a gap between the houses and the hospital she saw the bridge they’d cross soon to realign themselves with the main road, however briefly, before taking the well-worn twists and turns out into the countryside. 

She wove her way through a small group of tradesmen talking on the corner opposite the hospital, who eyed her. She felt proud of her uniform and pulled her shoulders back as she crossed the street to meet the wagon. 

Mercedes did not recognize the driver - an older man with hair like pulled cotton down to his collar and a mustard-stained beard. His uniform looked worse for wear. But he smiled at her. “Mercedes, right? Barry couldn’t come in today - sick. I’m Kem.” 

Although initially still a little wary, she tried not to be. Besides, she could deal with anything untoward if she needed to. “Oh - I suppose it happens to the best of us. Hello.”

“Shall we get going, then?”

Mercedes agreed and climbed in the back of the wagon with the crates of vegetables, grain sacks, and smaller boxes of medical supplies. It was the same kind of wagon that had picked her up from home and taken her to the compound that first day. She made herself as comfortable as she could in preparation - at least she wouldn’t be forced into conversation back here. 

The cart began to rattle away down the route she was used to; she leaned with its turns, adjusted early for the harsher bumps, felt cradled by the grainsacks at her back when they were going downhill. Through the arch of the canvas cover in front of her she watched the residential and small business buildings give way to quieter warehouses and silos, pedestrians become less common. Then, there was a turn she didn’t recognize, and another. 

_ Maybe he knows a slightly different route, _ she speculated, but sat up nonetheless.

The cart began to slow. Mercedes frowned. 

The cart had not even stopped, and the mouth of it in front of her was flooded by bodies jumping inside. Crudely masked with grainsacks with torn eyeholes pulled over their heads, they dived toward her. Mercedes scrambled over the supplies to get out of reach, but the five of them were bigger than her and she was cornered. 

“Oi! Kem we’re being robbed!” she shouted, despite all instincts telling her this was no petty robbery. She did not receive a reply. 

Mercedes threw her body at the canvas side of the wagon, hoping to break through. It didn’t rip quickly enough, so she had to resort to fighting back. She kicked at the stomach of the nearest attacker, sending them stumbling into the one behind them, but the sacks of potatoes and splintering medicine crates did not provide the best footing and she wobbled. The others were there and grabbing her. She thrashed and growled as they gagged her, wrestled another coarse sack over her head and pulled her arms behind her, binding them at the elbows first. They dragged her out of the wagon and she twisted her ankle on the poor landing.

She couldn’t cry for help, but she did make as much other noise as possible. It danced among the scuffling footsteps on the cobbles and bounced off the buildings, but no other noises came back to her. No doors opening, no shocked voices, no windows being thrown open. No one. The indignity over this fueled her flailing moreso than pure panic. 

When she almost managed to get her footing to try and throw one of them, they wizened up and picked her up - one attacker to each foot and one with his grip under her arms - and carried her the rest of the way. They did not go far - she heard a pair of light metal doors thrown open and she was taken downward into cool darkness -  _ a basement maybe, _ she thought. Judging by the acoustics she managed to detect, the space they were rapidly traveling through was first close and then, after another door was opened, much wider. 

Moments later they swung her body and her muscles tensed with the expectation of being dropped. Her awkwardly-bent arms and back slammed onto a wooden, tilted platform of some kind, knocking the breath from her, and her ankles were being tied down and a rope was being slipped around her neck, pulled upward past her head. 

True panic began to set in. Her skin began to crawl and her throat grew dry - there wasn’t any way out of this that she could see. No one knew she was here. What was this all about? The rope around her neck chaffed the grain sack against her throat and added just enough pressure under her chin to warn her to keep still or risk strangling herself.

_ Calm down. Calm down. You can’t solve anything by panicking. They won’t keep you like this forever - either they’ll take the hood off or maybe the gag or they’ll release a bond or two if they want - _ she sucked in a shuddering breath, her legs fought to pull closer together - _ if they want something else. And when either of those things happen, you can get more information, make yourself a chance.  _ She swallowed as best she could, avoided touching her tongue to the oily rag they’d used as a gag, and tried to control her breathing.

As she suspected, the hood was yanked off. She blinked rapidly and flinched at the sudden feeling of the rope now raw against her skin. She was in a warehouse of some kind, judging by the high ceilings and metal girders, with fire nearby. It smelt of ash. Her five attackers surrounded her. 

The one at her feet spoke. “We have no questions to ask you - not really.” The voice was male, well-spoken, and she did not recognize it. 

Her stomach dropped a little, her pep talk to herself washed away and replaced by a sudden feeling of surrealness.  It was hard to believe this was happening – it nearly felt comical. Her eyes passed rapidly between the five of them; unfortunately they were all of average height and build, but she could at least conclude they were male. Their clothes were nondescript and complete with gloves. Barely anything to go on.

“But, if you can tell us who and where the other Titan-shifters are, and where Léon Carello is, perhaps things will end up differently for you,” the voice continued.

She gave him a quizzical look. Was this a joke? First things first, though. “Titan...shifters?” she repeated.

“Don’t be obtuse. We know who you are. Answer.”

Mercedes never did react well to imperiousness. She scoffed. “My father is dead and I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“So certain of that?”

She sneered. “Moreso than I am with your claim that things’ll end up differently for me, even if I had another answer to give you.”

There was quiet, which surprised her. She expected at least another round of the same question, but it appeared that they believed her - or rather, that they were true to their word and anything she might tell them was of secondary importance to why they’d really brought her here. And if she wasn’t useful, it seemed unlikely she was going to be allowed to just walk out of here.

Her heart began to clamor again.  _ What do I do? What can I do? Why me? Why ask about my father? Maybe I should just make something up - no, that doesn’t matter to them. They didn’t kidnap me expecting to get anything from me. _ She did not like feeling helpless - she did not like feeling like a child. But she wasn’t a child - not really. That was almost worse. “Why am I here?” she demanded, for lack of another option.

They did not answer, but her words sparked them to move. A couple of heads were hung, as if apologetic. She struggled to keep her eyes on all of them but she couldn’t move her head, and three of them had moved outside of her vision. 

“Why am I here?” she demanded more shrilly when she heard the pumping of bellows and a rush of flame, leeching away her pride. 

“Because we have orders,” said the same voice. He sounded bored.   
  


* * *

  
Mercedes eventually lost track of time; the only clue she had was the question she’d originally been asked - it bounced around in her head to the point that she really did begin to wonder if she actually knew what they were talking about. But there was no information for her to give. They tore off her uniform jacket and strung her up by too-thin rope under her arms in order to beat her, tickle her spine with a knife. They eventually cut her down and tried to pour ounce after ounce of molten metal onto her face - when she thrashed violently to escape, it landed on her exposed right shoulder instead and, furious, they ground it in with their boots once it'd cooled. They drove needles up into her fingertips. It became a blur of shadows, light and pain until all she could do was sob her same question over and over: “Why am I here?”.

Yet they kept going, and she came to realize that it was true - it was all done because someone told them to do each and every piece of it. Why her remained elusive. She didn’t understand the leader’s sinuous hissing into her ear: 'the golden whore', 'the little madam', 'broken', 'spoilt goods', 'the pathetic end of the Carello line in a filthy slut'. What did she ever have to do with anything? How did they even know her name and what did it matter?

Toward the end, it wasn’t just her body they were twisted and contorting onto the ashy ground - it wasn’t just her pants, her underwear, that they were cutting open with a dagger and it wasn’t just her sex they were violating. It was her psyche that was being contorted, cut, torn, invaded. And it had no choice but to adapt - to twist, and overcome.  
  


* * *

  
Boots thudding and hissing through overgrown grass, her breathing as loud and hungry in her ears as the inhales and exhales of bellows, her throat burning through a sob lodged too deep to hook out. Every sliver of moonlight too hot to touch.

Mercedes only stopped running when she reached the Southern Division dorms - they were closer than anything else, safer and more familiar than anything else. She’d snuck in like a fugitive and darted from shadow to shadow through the compound, avoiding warden patrols as much as she avoided thinking about her pain. 

Even there, in the shadow of the back of her host building under the window, she looked from whence she came. No sign or sound of pursuit. Although she was fairly – logically – sure that she had lost her captors, it still felt as though they were grabbing at her ankles. Now that she could pause to catch her breath, her entire body started shaking. Dawn was little more than an hour away.

_ Calm down, calm down, just get back through the window. You can do it, _ she coached herself. She had to actively force open her grip on her uniform jacket and it fell softly into the grass. Even trying to slide the window up was an effort – her right arm was useless on account of the deep burn into that shoulder, and the other felt like porridge. Her bangle clinked on the sill. Hauling her bodyweight up and through took a couple of attempts and it was a miracle she wasn't heard. She left her jacket outside.

Now that she was in, she took a moment to use them hem of her shirt to wipe the blood off the sill before closing the window fully. The two bathrooms were either side of her, and the bunks stretched into the room after them, with the only door directly in front of her. Mercedes stared at it, waiting for her attackers to burst through it, or come out from under the sheets where her comrades slept.

_ Get clean, _ she coached next.  _ They can't know. You need to look normal by morning. You’ve got spare clothes here - you can do this. _

Inside the small bathroom with the door closed and locked, Mercedes finally felt a measure of safety. There was only a sink in here – the showers were in a separate building – but it would do. Her body resumed its trembling as she moved the birdnest of her hair out of the way and pulled tenderly at her shirt collar, loosening it from where it'd matted to her shoulder wound. The bloody blistering was reopened and made her grimace; she swore she could still see flecks of gold.

_ What a waste of gold,  _ she thought, and though her first instinct was to laugh, she turned the phrase over in her head and began to cry. Her shaking took over and forced her to sit on the floor. She hugged her thighs and the torn-open shreds of her pants and underwear – she hissed and pressed a hand to the scratch - no, slice - that made its haphazard way from her bellybutton down – recalled where their hands had been – dreaded to think what damage she was cradling between her hips. No amount of scrubbing could get that clean.

_ It's not supposed to be humans against humans. I didn't even know what they were talking about. Why would they do this? They had to realize I didn't know anything…why continue to this point? The danger was never supposed to be inside the Walls, inside of them, inside of us.  _ She looked up at the door handle, expecting it to turn. She checked the lock.  _ Is everyone really that vile inside, just waiting for the opportunity to let it out? _

"I have to get away from here, from all of them," she whispered. One hand softly laid against her hair, dirty with ash from the warehouse floor, and she swore she could still feel their fingers wrapping around it and pulling.   
  


* * *

  
The next morning, there was something different about her. Jean's attention had only been drawn to her because a sniggering whisper had rapidly spread on her arrival that she was late to training due to illness. He watched her slink down the edge of the field; she was disguising a limp and her arms were wrapped around her torso. As she got closer, he could see her unusually spooked and wan face peering out between the sides of her hair, which had been tied back in an equally unusual, less-than-secure way to hang half over the right side of her face and hide her neck. Mercedes did not look like someone who was sick – she looked like someone afraid.

While it satisfied him to see 'the leader that could be' brought low, it was also unsettling and compelling. Just last week she had been her usual charismatic, bold self, and now here she was, a shrinking violet. She was scanning them all and looking around her as if expecting to be attacked.

_ Maybe something happened on her home turf, _ Jean thought.

But it didn't seem like the right answer. She was hiding injuries. If nothing else than to get back at her for the last week, he volunteered to be her first sparring partner of the morning.

"Hey Queen Know-It-All," he called to her. "Come let me teach you about hair of the dog."

At the jab she glanced at him, and a little of her look of challenge returned to her face. She pulled herself upright, trying to appear tough as she walked over to him. "Good, I can teach you some manners, too," she replied, but the bite wasn't in her voice.

When they sparred, though it seemed to bring her back to reality a little, it quickly became apparent to Jean that all really was not well. She was avoiding using her right leg and several of her fingers were taped – the tape darker underneath than usual, speaking that they were there in place of bandages. She had uncharacteristically large reactions to average pulls on her arms and shoulders and when pressure was place around her underarms. He tried to go easier on her but she kept her usual pace, giving him little choice but to keep at  _ his  _ usual. He noticed then that her lip was split, though she'd done well to clean it up.

“So what, one of your Western buddies finally got one over on you?” he goaded.

She ignored him and aimed a punch at his gut; he dodged, attempted to grab her around the waist and throw her, but struggled for the right grip. They scuffled circles in the dirt. This close, he could see that her pants on the inside of her thighs had small red blotches that he was sure hadn’t been there earlier.

He couldn’t help himself. “Oh so you’re just on the rag! That explains everything.” 

Mercedes pushed him violently away and, with the distance restored, he was surprised to see her face looking more hurt than angry or indignant. “Shut the  _ fuck _ up,” she said, but it was, again, more hurt than anything else. She seemed to realize this reveal and plastered an angry frown on her face, charged back at him again.

The final clue – and the end to her fury – came when she missed a move, allowing him to toss her off of him onto the ground on her back. She cried out sharply in pain, alerting the few of them that were there. When her bountiful ponytail flopped away from her neck and face, he was met with a huge, ugly new bruise, scratch and what may have been burn combination emerging from under the higher collar of her jacket and, lower, that of her red shirt. 

As the others stopped what they were doing or walked over, without thinking Jean pushed her hair back over her neck, disguising it as shifting his weight. She in turn shoved him off her with her knee. 

"'Cee, are you all right?" Marco asked and came to stand beside them. 

"Yeah," she replied too quickly, and grimaced.

Jean got to his feet, perplexed. He was even more perplexed when she tried to stand and, when she put weight on her right arm, collapsed. Marco was immediately beside her and trying to help her, but his hands under her arms had her stifling a pained noise. He let got before she could push him away too, but was gentler about it than she had been with Jean, and let him try again by pulling her up by her left elbow. Mercedes’ hand was then slipping inside her jacket to press at her right armpit, and came away bloody. She hid it in a clenched fist. 

_ What the… _

Marco was casting him a concerned look.

"Don't look at me," Jean said.

"Let’s go to the medics," Marco continued and tried to lead her off the training ground.

“I can take myself,” she said and took a couple of quick, long steps, leaving him behind.


	8. The Drowned Fire

**Chapter 7**

_ Summer, Year 849 _

 

Mercedes had gone to the medics, and no further information had come back to them. It was assumed she'd got into a fight - albeit a strange one - at the Western Division compound, but it didn't explain the drastic personality change she'd undergone or the fact that she’d still come here like normal. Even Shadis, who had started to goad them every so often with exaggerations that she was going to be a Squad Leader before they even got out of training, was quieter and had a look of disappointment on his face when he wasn't screaming at them.

That night, a Thursday night, the canteen had been buzzing with rumors – some in worry, some in wild speculation, while others were quick to change their tune about her. Mercedes herself had been sent back early to the Western Division and without her around, it felt like whatever web she'd spun around their imaginations began to unravel.

"…got too haughty…bet Shadis feels stupid now…"

"…deserved to be brought down a peg…"

"…all bark, no bite…"

"…not what we thought."

Jean should have been glad to hear all of those things; they'd finally come round to his way of thinking, and weren't so deluded anymore. But it was hard to enjoy it. It didn't seem right to be glad about someone else's pain, even if she did do something rash. Besides, no one knew the facts.   
  


* * *

  
Miranda, having dismissed Willoughby a few minutes prior, finally brought herself to go down to the compound’s small medical ward where Carello had been since their arrival a few hours ago. Willoughby hadn’t been able to give her any clues as to what had happened, other than that Carello had not signed in at the Southern compound’s gate like usual last night, and that today, she had only been able to ride sidesaddle and with breaks - one that had, interestingly, involved her picking a large handful of some kind of lilac-flowered plant. Miranda didn’t have a good feeling about any of it.

The ward was afforded a fair amount of early evening light due to the windows dominating the right and back wall; Carello was the only one in a bed, at the far end of the room propped up awkwardly in a sitting position while a nurse set a tray down on the bedside table. When Miranda was closer she could see that the fifteen year-old was staring out into space. She wore a loose-fitting gown, which surprised Miranda since those were normally reserved for hospital visits and surgeries therein.

“I’m keeping your comrades-in-arms at bay for now but they  _ did _ tell me to tell you that they hope you’re all right. They’re eager to see you,” she said cheerily, thinking of them loitering outside even now. There was no reaction to her mention of Carello’s team, which was unusual. Miranda came to stand beside the bed; Carello didn’t react to that either and Miranda’s forced cheer faded. She noticed a cup of tea on the tray next to a bowl of stew and rice - there were pale lilac flowers and pieces of fresh green leaf floating in it, and it was unusually dark for an herbal tea. It certainly smelled like flowers, but also bitter like asparagus. She looked at the nurse, who had lingered in anticipation. 

“She...asked that the tea be made from herbs she brought,” the nurse explained hesitantly. “Said it reminded her of home.” 

Miranda thought back to Willoughby’s mention of Carello stopping to pick the flowers. “Do you know what the herbs were?” she asked.

The nurse shook her head, “No, but, Dr Walter said it was fine.”

Miranda supposed it didn’t matter, odd as it was. “Dismissed.” Her hand lingered by the clipboard half-under the tray, which no doubt surmised Carello’s injuries, but instead Miranda sat beside her on the bed. This was a person. A young person. Entitled to privacy and the treatment as something more than a bundle of symptoms and figures. “Do you want to tell me what happened?” she asked softly.

Carello did not answer at first. Miranda watched the girl’s face - it had a distinctly haunted look to it that she didn’t like, and which warned her from pushing too far and made the not-knowing infuriating in equal measure. Then her eyes seemed to unglaze and her mouth parted. “May I have my tea?” she whispered.

Miranda gave it to her. She watched the cords of Carello’s neck tense as she swallowed, drawing attention to the gauze peeking out from under the collar of the starched ivory gown. Carello drank the entire steaming cup in one go, as if the heat was nothing, worrying Miranda.

She struggled to know how to try again. She was her superior officer, after all. “Did you...they mentioned that you couldn’t ride…”

Carello breathed in deep and held it, looking down at the empty cup in her lap. “I don’t want to talk about it.” 

The way she said it unexpectedly broke through Miranda’s own defenses. “Mercedes,” she pled, and laid a hand on her forearm.  

“Please don’t make me talk about it.” Still holding onto the cup, with great difficulty and disguised groans of pain, she turned over on her side with her back facing Miranda. “I promise I’ll be back in action soon, Chief. I apologize for the trouble.”

After a few moments’ hesitation, Miranda retracted her hand and stood. “It’s not ‘trouble’. It’s not as if you’re to blame.” She was sure of that. Whatever it was she was sure of it. Nonetheless her hand roved again to the clipboard on the table, started to slip it out from under the meal tray.

“Then - I know I have no place to ask, but - could you let this be my business, if I promise to not let it affect my training?”

Miranda’s hand froze, debated, and then let go of the doctor’s report. At length she said, “Just this once.” She wasn’t sure why she was allowing it - of herself or Carello - but she found herself walking away. “Get some rest.”  
  


* * *

  
Later that night, Jean walked outside the dorm to where Marco was sitting on the short porch. He was staring up into the distance at the eternal monolith that was Wall Rose.

"Hey, curfew in a few," Jean said.

"I know," Marco replied.

Jean leaned on the porch post nearby and folded his arms. He tried to listen to the dogs howling and the crickets chirping, but his mind wouldn't slow down and shut up. It occurred to him that he'd been so preoccupied with Mercedes that he and Marco hadn't really talked much lately. Marco was prone to thoughtful silences but Jean wondered if there was anything else going on.

"The stew make you sick or something?" he asked.

"Do you think 'Cee's going to be okay?" Marco suddenly asked, as if Jean hadn't spoken.

Jean groaned inwardly. He couldn't escape her even when he wanted to, and even when she wasn't here. For Marco's sake he tried to put his frustration aside, but it was difficult. "You're worrying too much, Marco. And don't call her that."

"Why not? Everyone else does." He paused. "I think she's pretty."

"Oh god," Jean moaned. "Everyone thinks she's pretty."

"Except you."

Jean shifted his weight. "Mikasa's prettier," he muttered.

"Not to me. Hey, do you think Shadis would let me visit her? Maybe I could bring her flowers."

"He's more likely to bite your head off quicker than a Titan and you know that.” 

“Heh, yeah.” A brief pause. “Well, if not that, maybe when she gets back she’ll go to the market with me or something. I’d like to talk to her - alone, y’know? Really get to know her.”

“Give it a rest, Marco."

He sighed. "Sorry. I just thought…one day, y'know…maybe I'd want to get married and have a family. 'Cee had said she was thinking of staying with the Stationary Troops, and I want to go into the Military Police – it's perfect!"

Much as he disliked the subject, and much as he couldn’t see Mercedes being the marrying type like Marco was, Jean's expression softened and he laughed. "You're definitely an optimist."

"Someone has to be," Marco replied, and Jean could hear the smile in his voice.   
  


* * *

_  
(Two days later) _

 

_ They suggested I tell my granna – I could never do that. She's not supposed to worry about me. Has enough on her mind. They keep asking me what happened, what happened, what happened. I don't even know anymore. I wouldn't tell them even if I knew. Who knows what they could do with that information; it'd jeopardise the one thing that could get me away from here – if I train hard enough - hard enough to defeat at least five men twice my size - I can get into the Stationary Troops, go up the ranks, assess from there and maybe see if it's worth transferring out to the Survey Corps. If they think I want to stay around here, they'll be on my side. I'll trick them like they tricked me. They'll let me do anything I want; all I want to do is leave. There's no point in going into the Survey Corps directly – they could be wiped out any day now, unless they get a good crop of recruits to bolster their numbers. That needs to stabilize first, before I get there. And then…then…I'll be outside the Walls. If constantly fighting for my life against the Titans in their territory is what I have to do, I'll do it. Anything other than being trapped in here. All I have to do is hold on a little longer, and then I'll be free. _

Knocking disturbed Mercedes from her thoughts, reminded her of where she was – locked in the bathroom of her Western Division dorm.

"Mercy-Mae!" Brighid, with that stupid nickname for her – she much preferred 'Cee – called. "There's a line, come on!"

_ There are always lines. Lines everywhere. Lines to draw us through the air, lines we have to run, lines we have to stay behind, or cross. _

She'd grown to like the confined space of the bathroom, with its sliver of a window-come-vent at the top above the toilet and the way she could almost touch either far wall with her arms outstretched. Some small part of her knew it wasn't healthy to develop an affinity with such a space, but right now, the walls would have to substitute for any other warmth.

The knocking continued like the dull thud of a heartbeat. Did Titans have heartbeats, she wondered? She could still feel fingers in her hair.

Mercedes stared into the small mirror above the sink until she no longer recognized herself.   
  


* * *

_ (One week later) _

 

Jean noticed, though no one else did, when she stole a knife at dinner. They'd had a rare offering of meat on their plate and so the knives had come with it; no doubt they'd all have to pay when one turned up missing. She had shortly slipped away outside without anyone noticing.

He stewed over whether to confront her or not for a good half an hour before he finally worked up the nerve, and went out after her. It was a warm night with a clear sky; the change in temperature hit him like a wet sheet had been draped over the doorway. The sound of the ruckus inside was softened as he closed the door behind him. The high moon helped him look for her.

While it was mostly about avoiding tomorrow's repercussions, Jean had to admit a rather unhealthy obsession with the circumstances of Mercedes' personality change. Why, he wasn't sure; they frequently butted heads and he didn't like her all that much. Personally he’d found her charisma stifling and her boldness offputting – it was enough to make him want to rip her face off. But what that had been replaced with – the meek, quiet scaredy-cat – was worse. He thought a supposed fight at the Western Division unlikely to produce such a drastic change, and if what little he'd seen of her injuries was anything to go by, there was more to the story.

Jean began his search by walking farther out into the lane and looking either direction. No sign of a retreating figure. He turned and began to scout around the mess hall.

He was trying to be mature about it, he reasoned. No one else seemed that concerned about the change or her injuries. Sure, what fans she had were bothered by the fact that their almighty goddess had been brought down a few pegs, and Shadis was upset that his supposed leader-in-training had turned into a dud, but it wasn't the biggest disappointment in the world. However, they didn't seem worried about the damage it'd do to their team. They were only as strong as their weakest link, as Annie liked to say. And in order to suss out how badly their efficiency would be affected, he needed to determine how badly  _ Mercedes _ was affected and, if necessary, have her sent home. Somebody had to do it.

The surprising brightness he'd experienced out in the lane from the moon rapidly vanished as he went down the alley between the buildings. His eyes adjusted and he tried to pick out any shapes in the shadows, but Mercedes wasn't in them. As he approached the back of the building, though, and got past the sounds of the others on the opposite side of the wall, he began to hear a more unexpected noise. Into the relative silence a  _ shtick shtick shtick _ .

Jean slowed, and crept over to the side of the hall, stopping. The sound was definitely coming from around the corner – he couldn't make out what it was. Carefully, he rounded the building, immediately meeting a pile of empty crates waiting to be taken back to market. But through the gaps in the slats, once he brought his face closer, he could see Mercedes sitting on the ground cross-legged. She was very close; he hushed his breathing.

It took him a moment to comprehend what she was doing. She had both hands raised to her head, buried in her hair, and was making frequent jerking movements with them. It was only when he saw the growing pile of ebony hair on the ground and the glint of the dinnerknife in her hand that he realized she was cutting her hair. Nearly all of the right side of her head had been unevenly and roughly shorn close to her scalp.

Jean watched another tendril be tossed to the ground.  _ Why is she doing this? Has whatever happened really affected her so much that she's attacking herself? Surely there's another way to get it all out or whatever she needs to do? _ Her hair had frequently been commented on as her best feature – even if it was impractical for the job they had to do – and here she was, destroying it.

The more he watched, the more unsettling it was. He knew it was unreasonable of him, but he felt his blood pressure rising and the anger building in his chest and constricting his throat until even his eyes watered. Finally he couldn't take it anymore and stormed around the crates.

"Stop it!" he yelled. The force of his voice surprised him but once it was out there, he couldn't seem to prevent the energy from pouring from him. He dropped to his knees in front of her and tore the hand that held the knife away from her head. "Stop it," he repeated, unable to stop himself. "What are you doing?" He took the knife and threw it away. "Don't do it."

The face that looked back at him incensed him even further. Although wet – she had been crying, he was shocked to see – it was devoid of any emotion. Her large brown eyes stared back at him; she didn't speak, even to react to him. It was then Jean realized what he felt was not anger, but desperation and horror. Something, embodied by Mercedes, was being ruined and he had to stop it.

As though his hands had a mind of their own, he reached forward and held her head, forcing her to look straight at him. She didn't move, if anything she became more limp. "Why are you doing this?" he found himself begging. Her scalp under his left hand was rough, and there were even a couple of cuts where she'd been too quick with the knife – little smears of blood came away on his palm. When she closed her eyes to shut him out, he shook her. "Answer me!"

"You don’t care - not really," she said hoarsely, and despite her accusation he found himself grateful to hear her speaking – something was still left of her.

"You're –" he hesitated. "You're affecting our team. We can't have you weak like this," he said quickly. He recognized the need to rein in his emotions lest _ he _ be perceived as the weak one.

"Is that what I am," she said, rather than asked. Her eyes remained closed.

He didn't know how to react. All of her mannerisms so far had been alien to him; he was used to heated exchanges and snideness and trying to outdo her, he was used to someone who kept on pushing back and would never give in or be wrong. It'd been like fighting fire and now there was almost nothing.

His eyes fell a little downward. The wound on her shoulder and neck was bandaged, but the true extent of the injury was now more obvious since the lower scoop of her shirt worn in downtime didn't cover it. He remembered the glimpse of the strange bruise-scrape-burn he'd seen when they'd sparred. The fact that no one really knew what happened felt like a personal affront to him.

"What happened to you?" Jean asked next, because he didn't know what else to say. He'd sounded more helpless than he'd intended and he cursed himself for it. He wanted to let go of her head, but didn't want to place pressure on her likely-injured shoulders, and neither did he want to risk her escaping. He had to know.

Mercedes' eyes opened, finally, but she didn't look at him. He wondered if she was all there. What if she'd had a psychotic breakdown? It did happen around here.

The hands that had lain laxly in her lap slowly reached up and took hold of his wrists. She pulled his hands away and began to push him back by his arms, tilting her head back as she did so until she was looking at him through narrowed eyes down her nose. She began to lean forward herself, pushing him even farther back to bend him over backwards. He was surprised – he hadn't expected her to want to use her arms that much. What remained of her hair slid over her shoulder – she smelt of fruit of some kind.

Finally she pitched him over onto his back, letting go and standing. Pieces of her shorn hair fell to the ground from her clothes. Again without looking at him, she stepped over his legs and walked away as if he was nothing more than a rock.

"Mercedes!" he shouted. "Mercedes!"

She vanished into the shadow of the next building.

Jean struck the ground with a fist, and then caught himself – was he really being that childish over something as simple as this? Why did he care, exactly? He was unreasonably angry over something that wasn't actually his responsibility to care about.

He sighed, and looked over at the scattering of hair on the ground. Many of the pieces were as thick as a finger – he reached out, plucked one from the cold grass – and nearly as long as his arm when pulled straight from their natural wave. He had a thing for girls with pretty hair, he knew – not that he'd ever looked at Mercedes like that – but it had only just occurred to him that maybe the reason he didn't like them doing anything to their hair was more about what it symbolized than about the resulting look. Impossible as it may be, he wished they still lived in a world where women didn't have to alter their appearance for fear of being more likely to be grabbed by Titans. He wanted Mikasa and Mercedes to be able to live in a world where they didn't have to cut their hair.

Jean stood, wrapping the glossy lock around his fingers. He looked around – no one else was out here. He went back to the bunks early, coiling the hair in his pocket and trying to work out exactly what fruit it was that Mercedes smelt like.   
  


* * *

_ (A couple of days later) _

 

Mercedes barely flinched when the bathroom door was kicked in; it banged against the wall and she slowly turned her head left to look up at Xiersa and Pearl standing in the doorframe. She’d had a feeling this was coming. At this point it didn’t matter who was standing there, friend or foe. It took her a long moment to realize that this wasn’t her imagination playing out a scene - that they weren’t here to drag her away, or kill her - though it certainly would have been more straightforward.

“I could have been taking a shit,” she said blandly.

Xiersa put a hand on her hip. “But instead you’re sitting on the floor by yourself for hours on end, like you’ve done every night for the past week,” she replied equally as blandly. 

Pearl pushed past the taller girl into the bathroom. “Ugh, your hair. It’s even worse up close,” she said and reached out a thin hand to brush at one of the shorter locks on the right side of her head. “Least you stopped - it’s almost as bad as yours, Xiers’.” 

“Well yours makes you look like you have floppy dog ears so shut the fuck up,” said Xiersa.

Pearl experimented with hooking a longer lock with a finger and flipping it over from left to right; Mercedes swatted her hand away and Pearl recoiled.

Mercedes folded her arms over her raised knees and tucked her chin behind them, determined not to move or listen. A glance at the doorway reassured her that the other girls weren’t peering in at her like a caged animal. She saw Xiersa’s bare knees pass by her as she came in the small space, too, and sit on the floor next to her.

After a long moment Xiersa said, “You want the rest off?”

Mercedes looked at her, saw Xiersa holding a pair of sewing scissors from who knew where. Xiersa was staring at her with a strange kind of patience and understanding that she’d not witnessed before and Mercedes felt her muscles relax a little in response. She wondered if she knew, somehow. 

A quirk of Xiersa’s eyebrows reminded her of her question. Mercedes gave it some thought, and then replied, “No.”

Xiersa held her gaze a moment more, nodded almost imperceptibly. “Well, then let’s at least tidy this side up, huh?”

Mercedes let her, as if it was in exchange for not having to talk, not having to explain. Pearl yawned and closed the door, sat against it, and kept them company for the next hour without saying another word.   
  


* * *

  
When the three of them finally emerged from the bathroom, the dorm was dark and the other girls asleep. Her duty done, Pearl was already climbing the ladder into her bunk - Mercedes didn’t, however, fail to notice the sweetcake on her bed, saved for her with Pearl’s aunt’s trademark colored tissue wrapping.

“Fhalz was looking for you earlier,” Xiersa mentioned as she put the scissors under her bed, turned down her blanket and settled in. “The wardens’ rounds probably haven’t reached this end yet.”

Mercedes rubbed her eyes, grabbed the sweetcake and, feeling more indulgent to her comrades than she’d had in a while, nodded and padded her way to the dorm door. She slipped out into the night.

Fhalz was in the other Group D dorm next door; she saw him sitting on the little porch outside talking to Esme, who was leaning against a post. They detected her - Fhalz rose; Esme unfolded his arms and stood upright before stepping off the porch into the high grass. He stopped with the intention of meeting her halfway but Mercedes did not slow. 

“Like the hair,” Esme tried.

“I can rest easy at last,” she said.

As she passed him he paused her with a, “Hey.” It still had the attention-grabbing power of their first meeting in the dining hall. Reluctantly, she raised her eyes to him. “I don’t know what happened, but.” She rolled her eyes, set her jaw, prepared to turn away. “Don’t forget why you joined.”

Mercedes regarded him a moment, her expression unchanging but her spine growing less rigid; he gave her a quick smile as if he knew this, and left.

When she turned back to the Group D dorm porch, Fhalz wandered awkwardly to the edge and stepped off. The moonlight made his face even paler than it already was. “Hey,” he said.

She stopped in front of him. “Xiersa said you were looking for me?”

He folded his arms. “Just checking on you.”

Mercedes broke the sweetcake, gave him half, and shrugged as she took a bite of her piece. “I’m fine.” She could barely taste what she knew to be good cake, could barely smell the allspice - like her body was refusing to interact with the world in any way it didn’t have to.

“You’re not fine.”

“Did you bring me out here to lecture me?”

“You must have known I would, so you brought yourself out here to be lectured.”

Mercedes finished her half of the sweetcake and wiped confectioner’s sugar off on her shorts. What little relief she’d felt earlier from her spiral into her personal abyss faded. They weren’t the type to work out their problems with their fists and even if they were, none of what she felt was going away with further abuse. It would have been easier if so. She walked down the side of the dorm building, pretending to herself that it was to be out of the potential line of sight of the wardens when they came back this way. The long grass was cool on her shins. 

“Why won’t you talk to me?” Fhalz asked, disguising the hurt she was sure he felt by grumbling the question. He followed her into the dark.

“It’s nothing personal. I’m not talking to anybody and I intend to keep it that way,” she said.

“Like that makes me feel better.”

“Fhalz this isn’t your problem. You don’t have to care and I know you’d rather not.”

There was a stung pause. “That’s not true.” 

She remembered guiltily that it wasn’t - not quite. Fhalz's regard for his fellow man was complicated - utilitarian at best. It was easiest to say that caring wasn't useful for him and as such, was a limited resource he only gave to select people - he barely gave it to himself on the best of days. But she stood by her conviction that she didn’t want him giving any of that care to her.

Another pause she couldn’t break. “I thought we were friends?”

Mercedes wasn’t sure what to say. If she agreed then he’d keep at her, and she’d feel obliged to let him. But it wasn’t true to deny it. They’d been through a lot together already and were likely to go through much more in the years to come - he was the closest thing to a true friend she’d ever had. 

She turned and, averting her eyes, walked past him and back into her dorm.


	9. Trost, Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Note from the Author: For those of you sensitive to such material, please be warned - there is violence and gore ahead. Read responsibly.

**Chapter 8**

_Spring, Year 850_

_(Nearly a year later)_

 

Mercedes shrugged with a lazy smirk, "Go to Esme's dad's if you want, I don't give a shit," she chuckled, feeling the depression and paranoia of the past year continue to stay at arm's length, replaced by an old collegialness, a shred of her former self. "I think I'm just going to go to the Southerners' HQ training ground and run some laps or something to work off that breakfast."

"Carlstedt-Gaus gave us the day off! Come on. Graduation's tomorrow - surely you can afford just one day of relaxation?" Malik moaned, trying to keep his horse from blocking other foot-traffic in the street. Most of the rest of the Western Division, still in uniform but most with their jackets slung over their saddles, were either following Esme around the corner or streaming past them.

"Who says I don't find working out relaxing? Besides, shouldn't grow complacent," she retorted good-naturedly. "I'd rather take care of my body than bog it down with a day of beer."

"Ugh, suit yourself," Henri, beside Malik, rolled his eyes. The two of them turned their horses and followed the others.

"See you later!" Malik called over his shoulder and waved. "Your loss!"

"We'll come drag you out of the ditch later when you're done!" she called back.

"Hey, we'll go with you if you don't mind the company," said Fhalz, speaking for a group of half a dozen or so of them that'd congregated behind her like leaves in a drain.

"Finally, some sensible people," Mercedes smiled. "Anybody know the way?" she was looking at Fhalz even before he raised a hand, knowing full well his love of memorizing maps, and they began to follow him through the streets of Trost.

As they made their way over a bridge at a leisurely pace, Mercedes used her thighs to give Sabine what little guidance she needed while she rebraided her hair; she'd been lazy with it this morning when Carlstedt-Gaus came to wake them all up and drag them out to a celebratory breakfast. Her fingers worked away behind her neck until she was far enough down to be able to bring it over her shoulder. Brighid, a taller girl with dark wide eyes that had ranked tenth out of - as she put it - sheer luck rather than concrete skill, rode up beside her with a timid smile.

"I wish I had hair like yours!" she said, pulling at the thin, short ends of her own dark bob. "It's lovely."

"Thanks," Mercedes said and tied off the end of her braid, pushing it back over her shoulder. Although she knew it'd been an attempt on Brighid's part to make conversation and that it'd be polite to respond, personally Mercedes found her tedious.

Brighid looked around awkwardly for a minute. Then, with a conspiratorial leaning-over, she said, "Hey, so do you think the _real_ reason the Chief brought us down here _wasn't_ because it was her favorite place to get breakfast, but because she and Chief Instructor Shadis -"

"None of our business really, is it?" Mercedes shut the thought down. She was fond of Carlstedt-Gaus and didn't want to encourage anything that might tarnish her reputation.

"Oh. I suppose not," Brighid said. After another moment she said, "I sure am looking forward to a run." She stretched.

"Yeah." Mercedes looked the opposite way, at an eruption of steam from a street hawker lifting the cover of a tightly-woven basket to reveal a plate of fresh dumplings.

Yet another pause.

"So what branch are you thinking about joining? Really I can see the benefits and drawbacks of both. If you think about it, the -"

The question legitimately made her uncomfortable. "I haven't decided," Mercedes said quickly and urged Sabine forward, calling ahead of them, "Hey, Fhalz, wait up."  
  


* * *

 

  
"You're getting soft, Miranda," Shadis commented as they came onto the roof terrace of the Southern HQ office. She followed him to the edge, from where they could see not only the city of Trost beyond all the way to the gate, but the surrounding outbuildings, stables, and practice yard for the local Garrison, whose barracks were nearby.

"What does one day off hurt them?" she commented, resting her crossed arms on the sun-warmed tile of the retaining wall. "What would you have me do, coop them all up like imminent debutantes until the Ceremony? And before you say anything no I don't think buying them breakfast counts as fraternizing, or that it undermines my authority any," she passed him a knowing smile.

Shadis folded his arms, looking all the way out into the distance at the gate where his own upcoming graduates had been pressed into interim maintenance work. "We'll see how yours and mine match up, then," he said, and had she not worked with him for several years and known him better, she wouldn't have known the buried good humor with which he'd spoken.

Miranda scanned their surroundings. It was a beautiful day, warm and blustery and full of all the good smells; Trost was more colorful to her than Klorva and she had to admit she missed her hometown. Although her visits weren't infrequent on account of conferences with the other three Chief Instructors, it was rare that she had a moment to enjoy herself.

Her hazel eyes alighted on the training yard. She grinned and nudged him with her elbow. "I don't see any of yours down there but there are some of my kids - been there for about an hour now - on their day off no less." She nodded to direct his gaze. "Lathan and Reine, Carello and Haufman, the Gergritch twins…" she craned her neck to see around the larger man, "Damson, Spiegel, and Sutter. Nine, of my thirty-two, and I'm sure the others aren't far."

Shadis scoffed. "You keep graduating such small classes… One day I fully expect you to only send up a dozen or less."

"I prefer quality over quantity," she quipped with another grin.

"And you're saying I don't?"

Miranda stood upright and waved a hand. "Oh, don't be so sour. It's too pretty a day for -"

There was a flash of lightning from behind the outer Trost gate - even the sky appeared to darken for an electrifying moment. The entire city seemed to freeze and grow silent. Then, Miranda saw something she thought she'd never see again - the head of what could only be the Colossal Titan - appear over the top of the Wall near the gate.

"Please no," she whispered. It was too soon - too soon to send her cadets, too soon to send anyone. It'd always be too soon.

Then distant, faint shouting. First one warning bell, then another, began to ring. They were nothing compared to the crash that followed - dust and rubble flew into the air from the base of the gate.

"Fuck," Shadis said under his breath. The bells rang with greater urgency. "We've been breached."

They turned and took their steps as one, running for the steps that'd take them down. The HQ and nearby barracks was coming alive, but their sounds grew muffled as the cold of indoors engulfed her, as though the stairwell was an actual well.

"Get your cadets and yourself armed - we have spares," Shadis, a couple of steps below her, said. "They can be incorporated into the Southern vanguards. I hope they're as ready as you think they are."

At the bottom of the stairwell they parted ways; Shadis barking orders faded behind Carlstedt-Gaus as she took the back exit, darting past younger Garrison soldiers headed in the opposite direction. She rounded the building and came upon the training yard, nearly running into Carello, her Third.

"Sir!' Carello hammered a salute into her chest and the other eight cadets did the same. "What's happened?" Her fierce dark eyes and remarkable composure gave Carlstedt-Gaus some hope. She was glad to have Carello back to rights at least for today - today of all days, a small miracle for her sake.

"We've been breached," she said and absorbed their shock, drawing her shoulders back. "Go to the barracks next door and arm yourselves, quickly. You'll be placed into the appropriate vanguards by Commander Woerman and his men - follow Southern personnel instructions as if they were my own. Where are the others?" she scanned the yard behind them.

"They went South," Carello swallowed. "Far South, to Justica's father's."

She tried to process this information but didn't know enough about Justica's family to deduce whether her cadets were in true danger.

"That's near the gate," Lathan, her Sixth, said. "The breach zone. There's no barracks around there."

Dread began to crawl around in her stomach, amplified by the concern of the cadets in front of her. The warning bells and shouts of the Southern forces, along with the screams of the civilians, clamoured in her ears and pressed on her how little time there was.

Carello took a step forward, her face hard and insistent. "We can run gear to them. If we -"

"No, it's too dangerous," Carlstedt-Gaus said. "I need all of you to obey the Southern officials. There's no time for you to both get down there and back, and you'll be compromised if you're carrying." As Carello's mouth opened to object, she said, "Not another word. Go arm yourselves. Go."

Like good cadets they saluted her again, and like good cadets they ran away to the barracks to obey. She knew she should be going with them but as soon as they were out of sight, Carlstedt-Gaus leant on the wall and caught her breath. Tears stung her eyes. While she hoped that somehow, her other cadets would make it out of the breach zone, she knew already what a slim possibility that was. They would be out there in the breach, and they would stay in the breach; armed or not, like good cadets they would be out there doing their duty - protecting and evacuating the civilians - and like good cadets they might even try to fight the hordes that were pouring in right now. Like good cadets, they would do what they could, even if it led to their death.

Carlstedt-Gaus recited their names to herself as she headed for the barracks, like twenty-three prayers. She could see Commander Woerman in the distance and, closer, her armed nine running out of the barracks basement one by one, led by Carello. As they disappeared into the throng of brown leather and roses, she added their names to her rosary.  
  


* * *

 

  
Commander Woerman's superintendent left them; Mercedes watched as the nine of them from the Western Division began to reluctantly spread out over the rooftops, looking at one another anxiously. In the rush to get everyone prepared for the Titans that came in increasing numbers through the gate, they had assigned the hastily-made squad of five of them to the forward guard, while she formed a smaller squad of four with the Gergritch twins and Fhalz in the middle guard. The group was reluctant to be split apart, and even moreso knowing that the front guard were essentially fodder. Mercedes had again taken up her plea with the superintendent - to go to their stranded comrades, or at least be kept together in the middle guard - but was ignored.

"We can't just stay here," Fhalz, beside her, muttered. She knew his temper was barely kept in check. Her own wasn't much better after the superintendent had told her privately to fall back to the rear guard should she lose her squad. The idea seemed preposterous.

She eyed the superintendent's back, willing him to get farther away. She looked at the immense hole in the gate, the ugly shadows coming through it; at the stream of civilians being guided up the streets; at the faces of the other trainees from the Southern Division spreading out into the front guard. Every scream she heard may as well have been the rest of their Division being slaughtered in the breach zone.

Finally she heaved a breath. "Let's go," she said quietly to Fhalz, who relayed it to the red-haired twins. They nodded and darted away to spread the word to the others. In unison, they broke rank and headed in the direction of the nearest barracks.

Mercedes heard voices shouting after them, telling them to stop, to get back in line, to wait for orders - all were ignored. She knew if they lived, they'd have to answer for this. But the thought of leaving their fellow trainees defenseless was something that trumped that - none of them were able to stomach it.

Luckily, Titans had not reached the barracks yet. They scaled down the building and opened the maw of its basement, pulling out gas cylinders and loading their arms with gear. There was only so much they could carry - many of them tried to take two sets but some could only manage one - and it was horrendous to think who would have to do without. Hands occupied, Mercedes knew they'd have to run rather than be able to use their own gear.

"There's not enough gear for all of them," Brighid said shakingly and bit her lip as she came up the basement ramp beside her.

"Stay focused," Mercedes told her and did a headcount over Brighid's shoulder. "We can carry people if we have to." She knew that that still wouldn't be enough, but couldn't afford to dwell on it. Once she counted the last member of their group she nodded to them. "Don't stop. Fhalz and I will lead."

"Hey! What do you think you're doing?" came a voice.

Mercedes ignored it yet again; Fhalz bolted and the rest of them swiftly followed. They raced down the streets, the clatter of their gear and that they carried gradually becoming lost in the thundering of her heartbeat in her ears and the growing sound of buildings collapsing. She knew not all of those behind her were good runners. She knew they were nine, and grounded. They needed to get to the others before the Titans did. She could only hope they were still in the area they said they'd be in.

Fhalz, their fastest runner, was a good few meters in front of her, and he varied his pace to help stay in their sight as he scouted the way ahead. They wove through streets and alleys alike, their steps more and more unsteady due to the tremble in the ground from the Titans' own. Overhead, members of the front guard were speeding ahead toward the gate; Fhalz veered them in the same direction. Mercedes began to glimpse humanoid shadows, towers of steam, shoulders and heads above the rooftops. She glanced behind her while she still could - they were all still with her.

The tavern owned by Esme Justica's father was situated on a slight rise before the street tumbled into the poorest fringes of the Trost homes near the gate and its moats. Fhalz took them onto the wide main street and she could see the proud, well-kept building looming on the corner on the right. The street would run them all the way down to it - the fastest route, but one that led them also into the direct path of the oncoming Titans. She could see them lumbering up the rise and tried not to focus on them; rather, look for any indication of the others' whereabouts.

"Dodge!" Fhalz suddenly yelled.

The ambling steps of a five-meter class broke through a line of paddocks, scattering goats and sheep into the street. Hooves and bleats soared into the dusty air. Mercedes and the others behind her darted quickly right, into whatever alley was closest.

"Keep going forward!" she bellowed and adjusted her grip on the two sets of gear she carried. Her arm muscles were beginning to burn and she could only imagine what the others were feeling as a result. She heard the five-meter crash into the buildings around them in search of them, sending rubble everywhere. She had to trust that they wouldn't balk, that they'd be resourceful and not waste time and gas engaging. If more Titans came, though, she knew her faith would waver and she wouldn't blame them.

She and Fhalz curved back into the main street. Titans were closer now, on their left as well as in front of them, and she risked another glance behind her. She couldn't see everyone, but she heard them calling to one another. The five-meter was in drunken pursuit and she supposed they were lucky it was one of the slower ones. Returning her gaze front and center, she was relieved to see how close the tavern was. She could even make out the wooden sign swinging on its bracket - The Legion's Rest, painted in crisp white on blue.

Suddenly, a similar group of grounded soldiers emerged from behind the tavern, shielding a small group of civilians. The large group looked hurriedly around them and the civilians began to panic and scream. They floundered over one another despite the soldiers' best attempts to corral them, and the group splintered apart like a loaf of bread being torn. Some dashed for the tavern doors, others peeled away into the street or down an alley. As they parted Mercedes could pick out the tall figure of Esme Justica, their First, next to who could only be his father cowering in his wheelchair.

"Shit," she breathed. She raised her voice, "Justica! Here!" She wasn't sure what direction to give them - it wasn't ideal for them to arm themselves unprotected in the street but to go back in a building would corner them for good. She could see Titans converging on them.

The soldiers flowed toward her, pushing or dragging civilians with them; the two groups closed the few-meter distance…

"Look out!" someone cried.

Her head turned wildly, eventually attracted by the shadow cast over her from behind. Mercedes looked over her shoulder to see another five-meter join the first and cut them off from behind. It swiped angrily at their slowest runner, Sutter, who was splattered against a building. The gear he'd held clattered into the drainage ditch that ran down the side of the street.

"Keep going!" Fhalz yelled. She saw he had reached the group and was handing over gear.

Mercedes ran into the crowd and dropped the extra gear. "We'll cover you as best we can while you get armed," she said to Malik and Esme.

Malik pushed his lank blond hair out of his face; he was shaking. "We've never killed anything -"

"We have to go, now!" Mercedes unsheathed her blades.

"You shouldn't have come!" Esme bellowed at her, loud enough to make bodies freeze and heads turn, even in the chaos. More levelly - and with an air of disappointment - he said, “You’ve doomed yourself along with us, Carello.”

Mercedes held his eye in disbelief for what felt like a minute, even if it could only have been a second.

Then, for the first time in the three years she’d known him, Esme’s face contorted in frustration and desperation. He stepped forward and shoved Mercedes hard, fuming, “Go!”

A woman wailed and the tavern exploded - Mercedes felt the sound push her backward as much as Esme’s palms.

Chaos erupted. An aberrant seven-meter with hair as lank and blond as Malik's had crashed through the tavern on its haunches and in the process, smashed a third of the group to pieces. It forced its face down at the street to devour a few who still stood too close. Simultaneously, the two five-meters were grabbing at them from behind - one had Gina Gergritch in its meaty palm but Fhalz was already in the air, rising light as a windblown leaf high above the Titan's head. His blades flashed brilliantly in the sun and he suddenly plummeted to the Titan's nape, cutting through it. It toppled; Hollis severed its hand to release his sister.

As Mercedes' gaze swept up through the cornered civilians and her fellow trainees struggling to arm themselves, they came up to rest on a fourteen-meter that strolled out of the street opposite the ruined tavern. And then another came up in front of them, and another. Everyone scattered, but they couldn't get far; the walls of limbs and teeth and grasping hands blotted out all else, surrounding them. There was nowhere else for her to go but up.

 _We've never killed anything before,_ she repeated Malik's fear, and then swallowed it.

Mercedes shot a line at the dome of flesh above her, plucking herself out of the way of the aberrant's attempted seize. Her body was jerked upward and she skimmed over the shoulder of the fourteen-meter, whipping through its dark hair. She felt teeth graze her boot. Her second line punctured the middle of its back and she curved back toward it; it turned, gaping at her. She retracted her first line, redeployed it at the nearly the same spot on the Titan next to the one reaching for her. They both turned on their heel in unison, opening up the wall of flesh to present a gap between them - she could see the carnage of the dead and the dying underneath the feet of the aberrant, which was distracted by tearing into Henri. Mercedes steeled herself.

“ _Kill with one strike.”_ She propelled her body forward and retracted her lines as she passed through the Titan bodies, freefalling in their shadows. All sound faded except the air rushing into her lungs.

Her momentum waned and weight returned, making her feel like the full moon at the peak of its arc through the sky. Mercedes fired one line into the aberrant's neck at the last minute and shot over the remaining small distance before it could react. It tried to spin on its feet but it was too late. Mercedes held her blades to her left, parallel, and clenched all of the muscles in her upper body all the way to her fingers to brace for the strike - she carved into the back of the aberrant's neck, deep enough to where the blades almost emerged through its throat.

One of the five-meters, falling into her path under another soldier's attack, made her flinch before she was done with her strike. To avoid it, she brought her blades back a little, pivoting, and in the process pincering out the crucial segment of flesh they had been taught to seek. The aberrant guttered out a noise as it fell into the mess it had created, and Mercedes deployed her second line to swing herself out of the way.

More Titans had appeared in the area. While six of them or so were trying to fight them off, most of her comrades lay in pieces or unarmed, trying to guide what few civilians remained up the street in the direction of safety. No matter what they did, though, she knew it wasn't enough. It was a bloodbath, without order or mercy.

She watched Esme, with a half-shorn leg, stumble in the street - his father toppled out of his arms. She opened her mouth to shout -

A giant foot crushed father and son without ceremony, without even seeming to notice - that was when she knew it was time.

She dodged her way through steam and bodies to the top of the nearest stable building and called out, "To me! Let's go! Retreat!" Back in the direction they had come she could see Titans moving about the streets - other members of the front guard bounced among them - they'd be lucky if they could even retrace their steps.

Hollis landed beside her, wiping at the steaming Titan blood that made it look like his freckles were evaporating. "But the people, and our -"

"We're all going to die if we don't leave now, Hollis," she snapped. "Justica was right - we shouldn't have come. Get as many out as you can." She raised her voice again so Gina and Fhalz would hear her, "My squad to me! Form a vanguard for those below! Everyone head north!"


	10. Trost, Part II

**Chapter 9**

_Spring, Year 850_

 

Her feet clattered on the roof tiles; one dislodged as her hooks made impact and she jumped, narrowly missing a Titan's grasp that swung up between the gaps of the buildings. As her gear reeled her forward, Mercedes could feel its power waning.

 _Gas is low,_ she realized. _It's happening._ She landed, dislodged her hooks and kept running. Though her physical endurance had been commented upon as very high, speed was her weak spot. If she ran out of gas, even the slim chance of outrunning the Titans was gone. She may as well wait for them to pick her off the roof like fruit off a tree. _Stay calm. This isn't the worst thing that's happened. You saw humanity's true face –_ Mercedes slid down the eaves of one roof, jumped to another nearby without the help of her gear and clambered upward _– you know you can do this._

It’d been a thin hope that what remained of her division would manage to stay together in their retreat. No matter how hard she’d tried, Titans had separated them. Every so often she would see a body still flying through the streets or over the rooftops, but it was less and less and she saw more and more on the ground instead. At this point the unfamiliarity of Trost’s streets had spread them too thin and without each other they were brought down easily, one by one, to die alone.

_It’s my fault. There was more I could have done. I’ve slaughtered my own division with just a choice - I should have gone with them. Then at least I would have died with them. Now...I have to live. I have to tell someone who’s really to blame. I have to live with my failure._

As terrible as it made her feel to do, she began looking for fallen comrades. Depending on when they fell, she might be able to use their gas cylinders in place of her own supply, which had dwindled over the course of the Titans she’d had to kill or maim to get this far. Risky as it was, she kept to the lower buildings so it would be easier to jump down. Her next jump-and-skid took her onto the thatched, lean-to roofing of a stable as she sought to get back into the main route that the front guard had taken – and thus where the most bodies would be.

Mercedes threw herself to one side as a Titan hand swept toward her, crashing into the building and destroying the lean-to. She rolled and then fell to the street some nine feet below. After fighting her way out of the thatch and shattered lumber and scooping up her blades, she saw that the hand belonged to an eight-meter class with a mop of gray hair and askew eyes. Mercedes scrambled away as it brought a foot crashing down nearby. Her heart pounded as quickly and erratically as the crumbling corner of the building she'd been on.

Out in the middle of the street, a blood trail led her to a pair of dismembered legs and – she said a quick prayer – a set of gear. The Titan lunged for her; it only just missed her and she felt its fingertip graze the back of her jacket.

 _Get the cylinders, get the cylinders,_ she urged herself as she sprinted for the corpse. _Who had it belonged to?_ she distantly wondered. It could have been any of them; it could be Fhalz for all she knew. It could have been her.

Mercedes dipped into a crouch as her hands wrestled with the bloody screws that attached it to the blade scabbards. Her eyes rapidly alternated between her hands and the Titan as it approached.

_One screw free, come on! Three to go! Just one cannister will help!_

The hand reached for her again.

 _Come on!_ One more screw.

Another trainee swung past from the building behind her, slicing through the Titan's wrist. It reeled back and out shot its good hand. As the lanky figure dodged with another line, it turned so that Mercedes could see that it was Marco, of the Southern Division. She used the distraction to detach the cylinder, and twisted to work her own free in the same fashion, screw after tedious screw.

She glanced back up just in time to see Marco deftly slice at the nape of the Titan's neck, felling it. It crashed beside her with a tremendous thud that shook her bones. Marco landed a moment later and ran toward her, stopped short. As he caught his breath he held her eye for what Mercedes thought was too long a moment - as if he understood what she was thinking, or was seeing something else.

_I couldn’t save them. Any of them._

Mercedes remained quiet in the hissing steam that surrounded them like a veil. Her mouth parted, and she had to fight down the urge to confess to him everything that she’d seen down at The Legion’s Rest, to beg for forgiveness. She looked at her blood-sticky fingertips instead, ashamed.

"Replacing your cylinder?" he asked when still she did not speak.

Mercedes squeezed her eyes shut, shut in her pain, her weakness. "Yeah. Good kill," she acknowledged, opened her eyes. "Thank you." She grabbed extra blades from the dead soldier’s scabbard to replace her own while she was at it.

"Not the quickest thing to do by yourself. Let me help." He sheathed his blades and moved behind her. She stood. "Good thing I'm here, huh?"

"I'm grateful," Mercedes managed, because she knew that was what she should say and what she should be feeling.

"We have to hurry – there's a couple of five-meters and another eight-meter a block over – they probably saw me," he said. "I'm glad I found you when I did."

Mercedes heard her spent cylinder clatter to the ground and she rocked a little as he began to fit her new one. He was quicker than she expected, as if he was more of a mechanic or gear-technician than anything else. He also didn't call out how stupid her plan was, though she realized it now; every moment spent on the ground was one step closer to death, and this was almost more energy than it was worth.

Marco let out a short laugh despite the sound of footsteps growing closer. "Sorry, this'll sound strange, but you smell nice. Plums, right?"

Mercedes tried to process this – her mind felt like it was in a tunnel and he was outside of it, shouting into it. He came into her field of vision, smiling against the backdrop of steaming Titan and bloody streets. Finally she blinked and managed to smile, like a hand had reached through all of her dark designs and desperation and reminded her of who she used to be.

"Yes, it is," she said.

The heavy footsteps felt like they were just around the corner.

"Thought so. It suits you," he said happily, as if this were nothing more than a stroll at the market.

They readied their gear and he took a couple of steps away for a clear shot. She noticed then that he limped slightly. He was heading back south.

“You’re not retreating?” Mercedes asked dumbly. She swallowed on a dry throat. Her voice was grave as she said, “Marco you haven’t seen what’s down there. There’s nothing to save.”

“I have to try. Besides, need to make sure Jean’s all right, and I saw Reiner still fighting a moment ago - I can’t just leave them,” he said over his shoulder. He smiled at her. "I'll find you when this is all over, 'Cee, promise." He fired his hooks and crouched in readiness.

 _I couldn’t save them, but...if I could save one -_ Mercedes shook her head and as he took off, she shouted, "Marco, wait!"

One of the five-meters he'd spoken of rounded the corner next to her, and she had to fire a hook to pull her out of the way and up, across the street, to the top of a residential block. She looked behind her and couldn't see any sign of Marco and with him, no sign of the brief breath of hope that she could make a difference. She turned again to the north.

The eight-meter class loomed in front of her, as if it had been crawling along the ground and was only now creeping up the side of the building like a caterpillar. Its head was so large Mercedes couldn't get a good shot; the huge maw gaped and fell toward her.

Anger surged in her. Mercedes ran at the Titan and leapt off from the ledge of the roof, blades drawn, and though it keeled back in response she landed on its balding head and scrambled for purchase. As expected, its hands descended upon her, blocking out the sun, but she had fired a lower shot and snatched herself out of the way. Another shot took her back up and out from behind it, almost to hover just out of reach. She felt like time had stopped.

Yet another shot took her back in to finally attack – she held out her blades parallel to one another and carved into the back of its neck. Chief Carlstedt-Gaus had given up trying to rid her of the habit; it was at the angle that they were taught, but deeper – so much so that every muscle from her shoulders to her fingertips ached from the flesh's resistance – until the blades came out the other side and the head flopped stupidly forward on what little skin was left intact. The Titan's body slumped into the building, and then to the ground.

Mercedes kept flying through the bell tolls that called them home. _Marco didn’t help you for nothing. Come on._

She quickly tried to get back on track and find her squad. It was hard to tell how long ago it'd been that she told them to retreat from the massacre at the Legion's Rest. She headed north over the rooftops, trying to push everything out of mind except completing her objectives and staying alive. Engaging the Titans could no longer be a priority - even from her limited, linear view as she fled she could tell that Trost was overrun.

 _No, it's lost,_ she forced herself to admit as she glimpsed another squad being torn apart, its last remaining member - a young man with skin darker than any she’d seen - felling two Titans in one swoop even as his teammates were devoured. He was lost to view behind a church steeple.

Up ahead there was a moderately-sized stone weir built in a tributary to the river, shaded by leafy elms on one side, where the locals gathered to water their horses or let their children play. Its beauty and serenity seemed out of place in many ways to her, and so it was with an obscure sort of relief that she saw a Titan rear up behind the trees in response to a failed attack from a soldier. She recognized Gina and headed for her.

Before she could reach her, Gina was swiped angrily out of the air like a butterfly and thrown into the weir; she landed in a mangled heap face-down in the shallow water flowing down the tiers, her head lower than her feet, and did not get up.

 _One less,_ was all she could think. She could see the Wall over the rooftops. _One less of us and we're so close! One less of us…_

"Gina!"

Hollis sailed out of a side-street, his own Titan forgotten and now in pursuit. He was trained on his sister.

"Hollis! Focus! Focus!" Mercedes shouted at him. She curved in front of Gina's ten-meter Titan and headed for Hollis'. "Focus!" she ordered again but knew it was fruitless. Everything and everyone, almost, was in shambles.

Both she and the seven-meter Titan reached him at the same time. It grabbed him by his ankles and yanked backward, stuffing him into its mouth. Hollis clutched at its meaty lips, braced his knees on its teeth, screaming. Horror made Mercedes' throat constrict but still she anchored her lines in the Titan and grabbed onto Hollis, pulling at him even as the Titan mashed both of its hands into its face, trying to push them both in. It bit down on one of Hollis' legs, gnawing, and Mercedes stabbed at its gums with her free hand and pushed back against the fingers pressing at her.

"Let him go! We're so close!" she yelled, "Let him go!" she was growling, throwing her body this way and that to try and wrench her squadmate free even though some part of her knew it was no good. Hollis had given into terror and pain and his cries echoed around the Titan's mouth, softened as its jaw readjusted and took more of him in, molars crushing his chest cavity. His blood burst over her.

"'Cee! Let go!" Mercedes just about heard Fhalz call over the pounding of blood in her ears. She heard the singing of blades and the Titan jerked, one hand drawing away to swat in the air. Mercedes used her dull blades like spikes and climbed up the Titan's face away from its mouth. She saw Fhalz make another pass and this time, bring it down.

Although she disengaged her lines and tried to redeploy them to draw her away, they were too tangled in the Titan's limbs. Together they crashed into the weir. Winded and spluttering, Mercedes heaved herself upward and crawled out from under the Titan's arm on her hands and knees. She took a moment to catch her breath and saw Fhalz use what remained of his gas on Gina's Titan, felling it.

Blood stained the water and it flowed through her hands. She caught Gina's unseeing eyes and an ache opened up in Mercedes' chest as abruptly, she remembered a conversation with her father. She'd been four, and they'd talked about what happened after you died. Somehow, although well-acquainted with death, this was different to her. It didn't seem to be in the realm of reason. It didn't leave any room for the laws of nature - how could there be anything left of anyone, after all of this horror, that could endure into heaven or be born again?

Fhalz's footsteps splashing nearer distracted her. He helped her to her feet. His face was worn and haggard, and one of the lenses of his combat glasses was broken. "I'm out of gas. Come on, we're so close!"

There was no time or words to tell him how grateful she was to see him alive, to apologize for her distance the past year that suddenly seemed so foolish. "I'll carry you," she uttered instead, swallowing and passing one last look at the twins.

Tired as they were, the sound of heavy footsteps tramping nearer spurned them on into a final sprint for the Wall, and safety.

* * *

 

"Let me go to them," Carlstedt-Gaus murmured. Who knew how many times she'd said that as she and Shadis stood on Wall Rose overlooking the loss of Trost. Her gaze was trained on the rough direction in which she figured her cadets had gone.

"No, Miranda," Shadis said, quietly but firmly. He'd ceased to offer explanations or reason with her; the life had gone out of them both. Tears had dried on her face and she'd made no effort to wipe away the ones that lingered in reserve.

She'd only seen five of hers come back so far. Brighid Reine, whimpering with a cowardice she struggled to sympathize with but couldn't reprimand, had been the first, and had given her a grim picture of what had likely transpired down at the Legion's Rest. After that she had counted each of them gratefully, like wishes being granted, and hoped that yet more had maybe come up a little farther away, where she couldn't see. But now there had been a lull - it'd been nearly an hour since any of hers had come up over the lip of the Wall.

Then, she heard the two chinks of lines anchoring to her right. She walked to the edge, and with relief saw a blood-soaked Carello, holding Lathan, drawing upward. She crouched and helped first Lathan then Carello over the lip of the Wall. They collapsed on their hands and knees, breathing heavily but otherwise seeming unharmed, and then rolled over to sit down. She was alarmed by how haunted their faces seemed - was it really only this morning that they'd all laughed together over omelettes?

Still crouching beside them, Carlstedt-Gaus asked lowly, "How many?" She didn't have the energy to articulate herself further.

Carello looked up, and after a moment seemed to understand what she was asking. "I don’t know. Everyone...they...I should have..." Her lips closed and she stared apologetically up at her. Lathan was looking at her too with a similar expression, as if they felt they were to blame.

 _No. It's me who is to blame._ Carlstedt-Gaus swallowed, tried to keep her composure. She leaned over a little and squeezed their shoulders, attempted a reassuring smile. "I'm proud of you both," she managed and hoped they couldn't detect the quaver in her voice. "I'm proud."

Standing upright, she took a few heavy steps away and rejoined Shadis, mimicking him in the placing of her hands behind her back. Under her breath, she recited her cadets' names, and waited for the day to end.

  



	11. Trost, Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Note from the Author: For those of you sensitive to such material, please be warned - there is gore ahead. Read responsibly.

**Chapter 10**

_ Spring, Year 850 _

_ (Two days later) _

 

It was the second day of the Trost cleanup; most crews had been sent outward radially from the inner gate, identifying and clearing bodies and debris one region at a time so that the civilians could gradually be moved back into the less damaged areas. A pair of crews, however, had been sent to the breach zone nearest the outer gate, where there was the most damage and carnage; it would take a greater amount of time to make the zone habitable again - they had to start now.

Although Chief Carlstedt-Gaus had tried to acquire an exception to cleanup duty for her surviving trainees, there had been no such luck. The eleven of them formed one of the two breach zone cleanup crews; as they had done when they had had greater numbers, the Western Division kept to themselves and within each other's line of sight - hardly surprising considering their one and only fracture-apart had led them to losing their other twenty-one graduating comrades. The other cleanup crew - a mix of trainees from other divisions who purportedly 'needed to see the truth' that they hadn't otherwise been exposed to - left the Western Division alone.

Mercedes, having reluctantly held onto her de-facto leadership status among the eleven, surveyed the next part of the zone they were to move onto. The road was a straight line, though debris tried to obscure it. In the distance there was a slight rise before the land fell away into the breach zone proper. On this rise was the pile of sticks and stones that used to be The Legion's Rest.

Fhalz, ever on her right lately, said quietly, "We were just here."

Others of the eleven came to stand in the street beside her, and even the corpse wagon and older coroner's staff held back.

Mercedes glanced either side of her at the faces of her comrades - mixtures of anguish, numbness, or horror. Coleen even turned away and vomited for the second time that morning; Brighid held back her hair, trying not to sob.

The more sympathetic of the coroner's staff with them came up to Mercedes and said, "We can have another crew clear this area if -"

Mercedes took a deep breath of the putrid air through the handkerchief covering her nose and mouth, fought down her own nausea and steeled herself. "No," she said firmly. "We need to do this. We should be the ones."

"'Cee I don't think that's necessary," said Fhalz. His eyes were glancing side to side at the others. "I mean, some of these guys have already seen enough. Is it ‘we’ who need to do this, or is it ‘you’?"

"We're the ones best able to identify them," Mercedes countered, raising her voice for the benefit of the others. "We can't exactly bring their family down here to do it." She looked around at the others, this time, "I can't - and won't - force you. If you want to sit this one out or work in another area, do it. But if you agree with me, let's keep going."

Mercedes walked forward, toward the last place they had seen the majority of their fellow trainees - before she had instructed them to retreat. But she couldn't allow her steps to grow heavy again with the weight of that decision. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Fhalz kept pace with her. She heard others following her, and the creak of the corpse wagon and the  _ clops _ of the hooves of the horse that drew it. A glance behind her told her that the other ten continued to follow her. She didn't pause to enjoy the feeling of being obeyed - it was sour at this point, anyhow - or to insult them with platitudes - they were past those - and instead, began pointing and directing them to their tasks.

_ Tasks,  _ she thought. If she just kept them on task, herself on task, they could get through another day. They could beat back the terror, the guilt, for another day. If she concentrated on clearing the street, washing the blood from the bricks, piecing the bodies together in bags, there wouldn't be room to think about whether she could have done better. She'd done well the past day or two - almost to the point that it wasn't human flesh and Titan vomit that she was dealing with.

Victor, Conrad and Siegfried to debris removal. Coleen and Brighid to carting water from the nearest well on account of their weaker stomachs so that Penelope and Danika could sweep the worst of the blood and viscera into the sewer drains with the wide, coarse-bristled brooms. Eli and Kaspar did the bulk of the body-collecting; Fhalz, with his superior memory, identified them - or what remained of them - as best he could. Mercedes floated between them all to pitch in where needed.

As she veered away to help Coleen and Brighid get a head start on the water, Mercedes' eye was caught. Beside her feet, half-under a pile of roof tiles from the fallen tavern and sodden from sitting in the gutter, was Malik's upper half. Most of his skull had been smashed in, but she recognized him nonetheless.

_ What had I said to him and Henri that morning?  _ she mused distantly.  _ "We'll come drag you out of the ditch later when you're done." _

She blinked rapidly a few times, hurriedly moved the bulk of the tiles that trapped the shreds of his stomach. She couldn't drag him out, and be true to her word, however. Thankfully Eli had spotted her and took the initiative for her. She kept moving.

Kaspar stood in the street in the middle of a patch of red so thick it was like moss. Alternately he bent over or crouched and stood, stepping carefully here, then there, reaching out but retracting his hand just as quickly. Mercedes paused and watched this surreal dance of his for a few disassociated moments before realizing what it was: the spot where Esme and his father had been crushed underfoot by a Titan during the retreat; Kaspar was trying to find something identifiable to salvage, but nothing was large or solid enough. Eventually the boy gave up, crouching with his head in his hands.

Esme’s hands on her chest, pushing her. Further back, to him telling her she was a leader, too. Mercedes tried to swallow the burn at the back of her throat, the ache. Her mouth parted.  _ I should say something. I should do something. _

But she couldn't. She turned down the nearest alley under the pretense of going to the well. The shadows from the buildings were cool on her hot forehead and neck, and welcome, even though the patch of unidentifiable red was still burned on her retinas like she'd stared at the sun too long.

_ Calm down. They need you. After all you did, they need you. Calm down. This will be over soon, just one more - _

Xiersa and Pearl lay in a crumpled heap against the wall - Pearl's hand still gripped Xiersa's jacket, as if she'd been trying to pull her away or herself closer. Their blood had painted a wide, long flag on that wall from the third storey down. Pearl's silvery-blonde ringlets were stained a ridiculous pink, and Xiersa's teeth were shattered and spilling over her swollen lips. Their eyes were open wide.

Mercedes stumbled into the wall of the building opposite them, her hand over her mouth. She did not vomit like she'd expected - rather, her stomach seemed to drop and her lungs flatten. She began to shiver, more and more violently until her knees buckled a little. She took as deep a breath as she was able, looked up at the lines of cirrus over the blue sky to try to rein herself in - enough to glance down either end of the alley to verify that she was alone. That her composure could safely warp.

_ This is worse than my nightmares. This is worse than what they told us. _

The dead did not look graceful; there was comedy in how they lay, in their last expressions. Mercedes had never thought that death would tempt the living to laugh - that was perhaps cruelest of all - to want to laugh just as much as wanting to claw one's eyes out.

Mercedes held herself and let out a single heave of a sob, continued to tremble the horror out of her through her aching calves that barely held her upright. She kept leaning heavily against the wall and hoped the others wouldn't see her. She pressed her lips shut so hard between her teeth to keep herself quiet that it hurt. Her eyes remained dry.

She wasn't sure how long she stood there, but she jumped at first when Fhalz carefully, then tightly, wrapped his arms around her - he had to squeeze his arm between her and the wall and the scuffing of his jacket on the stone was loud in the small space. She managed to release one hand from herself to hold on to him instead.

"Don't tell anybody," she said with difficulty.

If he was surprised at her childish display of pride even now, he didn't voice it. "Sure, 'Cee. I won't if you won't," he replied softly.

She felt a fat tear land on her knuckles and it shocked her - Fhalz never cried. It pulled out the ache in her chest and she felt herself tearing up for the first time in what felt like forever. They held onto one another more tightly.

"More," she blurted, then realized she needed to complete the thought. "I should have saved more of them. My tactics were -"

"Don't. You did what you could - eleven of us got out rather than none - we won't talk about this ever again," he said firmly.

_ “Don’t forget why you joined,” _ she remembered Esme saying.

The order was what she needed - her body responded to it even when her mind and heart were tired. Her tears receded, her shaking stopped. Gradually, they let go of one another and stood upright. Without looking at one another, they carried on working - Mercedes retreated to the well as intended, Fhalz called for Kaspar and Eli.

She threw herself into the sheer single-minded nature of hard labor - jogging with an overflowing pail of water in each hand, back and forth; lending her shoulder to lifting roof beams out of the road; pulling crushed livestock out of the residences in which they'd fled; scouring the streets by sweeping until the blisters on her hands bled; tying off the body bags efficiently as tying a shoelace and heaving them into the back of the wagon with perhaps too detached a swing. Slowly the wagon, the crew, moved on through the breach zone - after an hour or so she no longer heard the orders she gave and no one spoke to her.

Eventually they must have made it past the massacre spot of their division; Mercedes only recognized this when, ironically, she did not recognize their surroundings. They'd met back up with the other cleanup crew. Although most of them were stopping for a break - shaking sips of water from canteens, untouched bread - Mercedes couldn't stop. If she stopped, she was sure she’d drop dead and she wasn’t convinced she deserved to do that.

She rounded the wagon to take inventory of how many body bags and lengths of rope they had left; she wasn't sure how it was possible, but the bodies were bleeding more now that they'd been disturbed and due to the slight incline they were on, it was slowly dripping out the back of the wagon. The smell was rank already and a raven tried to land on the wagon seat - she swatted at it and it cawed irritably at her. Although she glanced at the lines of corpses down either side of the wide belly of the wagon - the aisle between them getting smaller - she no longer saw them as friends lying there. Just bodies. Just things she was responsible for bringing back - just deliverables.

"Hey," said Fhalz.

She looked at him only briefly. She waited for him to make a comment about her needing to rest, but none came. He knew her too well.

After a moment's pause he sighed. "Kaspar found this near… near Esme. I think it's all we're going to be able to bring back to his family," he said. She turned from the three body bags they had left to see what he held: a simple chain clotted and stiff with blood - it was only by virtue of her remembering how he always wore it that she knew it to be silver.

"His father  _ was _ his only family," Mercedes clarified. "And Katka, I guess. Didn't find her."

"She must have been eaten, then."

Mercedes was drawn out of her apathy by his own. She watched his dirty, blood-streaked face. "You sound even worse than me, Fhalz."

He shrugged. "You know how I am."

She did. She understood it better than probably anyone. 

"But I care about whether you care or not," he added. He held out Esme's chain and dropped it into the palm she raised. "I get worried when your internal compass is off a bit. If mine's off, what does it matter. Yours though."

As she crouched she wondered if, in that case, he’d been worried ever since she’d been attacked and she had been unable to tell him about it. It seemed too late to talk about it now. What difference would it make? She doubted her internal compass would ever find true north again.

She washed the chain with water from her canteen like some kind of rite, and then pocketed it. When she stood Fhalz had gone, conferring with the coroner's staff a ways off. The two crews were mingling, gradually getting back to work. Likewise did the various carrion birds mingle, in a thickening ashen mist descending around them - likewise were they getting back to work.

From not far away, Mercedes heard a girl's voice take up a song and encourage others to join in - some did. She located the voice as belonging to a tall, flimsy-looking blonde with the white of her uniform pants stained rusty-red at the knees and shins - she was throwing rocks at the crows and as they lifted, Mercedes could detect the spirits of those around her lifting too. The girl's unexpected cheeriness aside, at this distance - although knowing she could not be - she looked like Katka.

Mercedes faintly smiled.

 

_ (Later, that night) _

 

Mercedes stared into the pyre as the flames grew ever higher. She had never thought about what they would do with their dead – it had always seemed like something that someone else would take care of, overnight and without much effort. Without fanfare, even. But standing here next to it, and having seen civilians washing blood off their windows and scrubbing it from their doorsteps felt too close, as if all the ghosts of those that'd passed on were trying to inhabit her body. And she never imagined the pyre would be this large.

It was harder now to distinguish trainees from senior soldiers by face alone. The knowledge that Eren of the Southern Division had the ability to shift into a Titan was hovering over them all like smoke. Mercedes felt leaden. 

_A titan-shifter,_ she thought. _He was inside this whole time. They exist - my torturers were right -_ I _was right - it’s just as dangerous in here as it is out there._ _A titan-shifter sealed the breach and protected humanity, and yet...it was humanity that tortured me. It was humanity that made me into something worse than a titan - I wouldn't have sealed the breach. And sure, it was sealed, but the effect’s the same - my division is dead._

Then, she saw Jean Kirstein on the other side of the pyre. The wavering air between them made it appear as though he was walking toward the fire, toward her, but never reaching her. She remembered then that Marco Bott had been among the dead, and that was why in particular he was here.

_ "I'll find you when this is all over, 'Cee, promise," Marco said. "I'll find you." _ she remembered. To what end? What would it have mattered? It certainly didn't, now.  _ I’m not the person he thought he’d find. _

Her gaze roved through the flames as though she too were walking among them, wondering which one belonged to Marco. Her eyes alighted on Jean again; he had been staring at her and looked away. Maybe it was a trick of the fire, but she could swear she saw his expression changing, his resolution wavering and strengthening, like something of himself had been lost with his friend and he was being born again. In a way, she envied him for that rebirth.


	12. The Garrison

**Chapter 11**

_ Spring, Year 850 _

_ (Five days later) _

 

Mercedes and what remained of the Western Division were already in the yard for the Disbanding Ceremony when Jean walked in with the others. There were only around a dozen of them, close-grouped and sullen; Jean assumed they'd originally been around the same size as his own division, and wondered how they could have lost so many so quickly and how - surely they hadn’t all been in Trost? Their shadows on the ground were long in the firelight and he was reminded of how Mercedes had stared into the funeral pyre – Marco's pyre – those two days ago, like she was reading it as easily as she seemed to read everyone around her. 

Mercedes and an auburn-haired guy with glasses stood silently together a little ways behind their teammates, and despite being shorter than most of them he got the impression she was watching over them. Her arms were folded and her hair was down for a change; the right half of her skull was starkly short while the rest of it, coating her shoulder and back, glimmered like ink. A few of his group broke off and went to her; he trailed behind them at a distance. Her friend watched their approach but Mercedes remained staring forward.

"You made it, 'Cee!" Sasha said gratefully.

"We thought we saw you," said Armin.

Jean watched her turn at last and give them a weak, fleeting smile, like a breadcrumb to appease a flock of birds.

"What happened to you guys?” asked Reiner, looking at the rest of the Western Division. 

Jean noticed with interest that Mercedes’ friend - and indeed, the other nine of their division - were retreating from the conversation into the shadows, their faces becoming pained.

Mercedes stiffened. "A combination of things," she said, and did not elaborate.

In the awkward silence that followed, other surviving members of the 104th from the Eastern and Northern Divisions filtered into the yard. The noise of their shoes scuffing the bare earth compounded into what sounded like sandpaper.

"Where did you place?" Annie asked, surprising Jean with her interest and reminding him of his own.

"Third. But we lost our top-of-class and our Second." Mercedes looked over at her division, as if she was counting them again. "We lost almost everyone. Most of our ranking classmen, too."

"Must not have been anything to write home about after all, then," Connie muttered.

Jean was surprised by his comment and reasoned it must have been made because he thought she wouldn't hear him, but he saw Mercedes' eyes widen and catch alight as she turned to Connie. "They were in Trost before you were. As civilians," she intoned. Her arms remained folded as if to hold her body together.

In her shadow, Connie froze and his face took on a look of panic. "You mean –"

"We were in downtime," she confirmed. She continued in a low, menacing murmur like the rumble of an earthquake, "As well as watching our own backs, we tried to run their gear to them. Against orders, I might add. Then, of course, we weren't as lucky as you were to get to HQ and the gas supplies. Myself, our Sixth,” she nodded at the guy who’d been with her earlier, “our Tenth, and eight unranked - that's all that's left."

Again, an awkward silence.

"We're sorry, Mercedes," Armin said quietly.

Mercedes only looked at the ground and did not answer. Not knowing what else to do or say, the Southern Division began to wander away again. The platform at the end of the yard was starting to populate with military officials, and this began to draw the rest of them. Jean lingered for a moment, watching her lift her chin and stare at the braziers either side of the platform; their flames danced in her eyes when she glanced at him. She looked away and began to wander forward.

"He liked you, you know," he found himself saying. Even referring to Marco made his chest constrict, but it felt like something she needed to know – that Marco would have told her around now, maybe, or at least wanted to.

She stopped. "How did he die?" he could just about hear her ask.

Jean swallowed. He thought about lying, thought about being honest and pouring out everything he'd thought when he saw his friend's torn body and when he saw them add him to the pile – just another sack. Instead he replied, "Alone."

After a moment's hesitation, she asked, "Why tell me what he felt?" Her voice was quiet and emotionless, but at least it was encouraging that she seemed to know who he was talking about.

Jean began to walk with her toward the platform. Behind him, senior soldiers were telling them to line up. "I don't know. I just thought it was the right thing to do." He separated from her to stand with the rest of his division.

Throughout each of the corps' representatives' speeches, Jean not only debated his planned choice, but wondered which Mercedes would choose. He remembered Marco had said she wanted to be with the Garrison but now that she had seen the same horrors he had, maybe, like himself, her mind would be changed. Not to mention that she had lost almost all of her fellow classmates. In fact, the tragedy that befell the Western Division was commented upon by the Chief of the Military Police – in hopes it would lure those that remained into choosing them, Jean figured – but he looked over and saw Mercedes standing as before, as unmoved as a mountain by a snow flurry.

_ Maybe she'll do the opposite, then, and choose the Survey Corps? It'd fit her, _ he thought.

However, after Commander Erwin Smith had finished his grim but realistic call to arms, he invited all of those who wished to join other divisions to dismiss themselves – and Mercedes saluted, turned on her heel, and she and her friend walked away. Having turned from the fire, Jean couldn't make out her face.

He was oddly disappointed. It almost felt like it was the wrong decision, or that it was made for the wrong reasons. He couldn't see her as a guardian of the Wall, noble as that was, or with roses on her back instead of wings.  
  


* * *

_  
(Three weeks later) _

 

It'd taken them a while to get through interviewing the new recruits to the Garrison; they'd been brought to the top of the eastern Wall overlooking the Karanese District in seemingly random batches of thirty, and asked to line up until their name was called; whereupon they were to approach a table that had been set up with two chairs for whom she presumed were Captains or Commanders – they weren't familiar enough or close enough for her to see who they were. There'd be a short interview, and the recruit would be assigned to a more specific area or task as well as their commanding officer, and then dismissed. It all seemed very tedious and unnecessary to Mercedes, and she would have written it off entirely had she not noticed the smaller, personal table behind the interview panel, at which sat the unmistakable Commander Pixis. He faced the countryside while he ate his lunch and had tea.

_ He's in earshot of the panel but isn't on it. Why? _ she pondered for the tenth time.

The sun beat down on them and made it warm despite the chill wind, creating a queasy mix of temperatures that her body was having trouble regulating. The other recruits next to her were both sweating and shivering; their eyes stung from both squinting and from the wind, which was strong enough to make her braid beat against the back of her jacket. She wondered when they would be given their new uniforms.

Fhalz, who had been called before her as the current interviewee, saluted, turned and as he passed her, rolled his eyes and nodded ahead, indicating they’d talk later. No other clues to go on – it was maddening.

"Carello!" one of the officers called.

_ Finally.  _ Mercedes neatly sidestepped out of her line and rolled her shoulders, walking forward. Once she was within a couple of paces of the table, she stopped, straightened, and saluted.

"At ease," said the Captain, a blond man with a slight mustache who looked tall even while sitting down. She couldn't recall his name.

Mercedes let one foot slide apart from the other and placed her hands behind her back. She kept her face expressionless as they examined their clipboards and substituted one page – presumably for the last recruit they interviewed – for another. The papers fluttered wildly in the wind and it was a miracle they didn't tear. The Captain carefully replaced the old one in a box that also held a large stone. Behind them she glimpsed more boxes and wondered if they'd already been done or still had yet to be gone through, and didn't envy their jobs.

"Mercedes Carello. From the Western Division, rank: Third," the Captain began to read. His blue eyes looked up at her, "We're sorry for the loss of your classmates. That was a tragedy that however unavoidable, we should endeavor not to repeat."

Despite the genuine sympathy in his face and voice, Mercedes' voice was flat as she replied, "Thank you, Sir."

"You were with the Middle Guard," continued who she now recognized as Commander Woerman. “However briefly,” he said under his breath.

"Yes, Sir."

"And appropriately come highly recommended by Chief Instructor Carlstedt-Gaus... and Chief Instructor Shadis."

She was surprised by this last notation, but didn't let it show.

"A recommendation from Shadis - a miracle in of itself!" the Captain chuckled to himself.

_ Are we all just going to stand around while you two finish each other's sentences? _ Mercedes thought irritably.

Woerman cleared his throat. "I'm sure you can understand our suspicion regarding someone of your caliber not choosing the Military Police or the Scouting Legion. Why exactly have you chosen the Stationary Guard?"

"We are the protectors of the Walls and all who reside within them. It seems logical to devote my abilities where the most people can benefit from them," she clipped. "I see no advantage in being somewhere where I would grow complacent."

Woerman peered at her. "Eager to dismiss the Military Police, but not the Scouting Legion?" he queried.

Mercedes recognized the attempt to unsettle her, and turned her head slightly to focus her full attention on him. "No, I do not find it easy to dismiss something that was a close contender for my application, Sir."

"Well we're certainly glad you're here," the Captain jumped in. "As to your abilities and where they could best be used…" he turned the sheet on his clipboard over. 

Mercedes resettled her gaze on the middle distance between their shoulders and the rise and fall of Commander Pixis' teacup. "As well as being ranked third," she surmised, "I have skills in horse- and marksmanship and a competent level of medical training that you may find useful. Regrettably I have not been able to focus on those lately due to the understandable preference for maneuvering gear, hand-to-hand combat, and endurance training, but I look forward to being able to do so in the future."

The pair made notes.

"Naturally we cannot, despite Shadis and Carlstedt-Gaus’ recommendations, place you in a leadership role too soon," the Captain said, "since you are only a recruit. Shadis also advised that you had recently undergone a…personality change, and that this may have a negative impact on your ability to lead."

Mercedes tried to control the anger that flared in her stomach and crept up her throat. "While I'm uncertain of the Chief Instructor's meaning, I will endeavor to improve wherever asked and be worthy of his recommendation."

"Of course," the Captain said. "In light of having successfully led your own small squad during the recent Battle of Trost, and aiding the survival of several when so few of your Division didn't, I'm sure it would not be inappropriate to recommend your allocation to one of our own Squad Leaders for shadowing."

"However." The Commander leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table; his hands laced together. "Captain Hannes here is being too generous, in my opinion. It is our understanding that you showed great reluctance to follow the order to fall back into the Rear Guard should your squad be compromised. And your squad  _ was _ indeed compromised. I'm sure you can understand that strict obedience to orders is key to our success, and why anything else will not be tolerated." Again his eyes peered out at her from their dark caves.

Mercedes watched Pixis' cup hover in front of his face, and she knew then that she would be answering him alone. She beat back memories of Esme, the twins, of the ruin of the rest of the division and the shells of those of them that lived. ‘Compromised’ seemed so careless a term for what had happened to them.  

She gathered what few words were safe. "Of course, Sir. It's merely that I do not believe in abandoning men to die."

"They are not  _ your _ men to abandon, recruit."

"No Sir,  _ I _ was not the one to abandon them."

She hadn't exactly meant to say that, but it was satisfying nonetheless. She hadn’t even realized she believed it - that she’d forgiven herself - until she said it. She placed her focus into the distance where the edge of the wall began to curve to the southern border and the faint plumes of smoke that still rose from Trost. The next few moments were charged and silent apart from papers flailing in the wind.

This time it was Captain Hannes who cleared his throat. "We will send word to you at your barracks regarding your assigned supervisor; you'll find your new uniform jacket waiting for you there. Welcome to the Stationary Troops, Carello. We look forward to seeing your talents and how they can help the fate of humanity. Dismissed."

"Thank you, Sir." Mercedes saluted and left.

Only once she was past the remaining recruits – how many were also ranked, she wondered? – did she finally let out the deep, frustrated breath she'd held. Her fists clenched as if it'd help her keep a tight rein on the memories of both her torture and burning her comrades' bodies. It made the almost-healed wounds on her shoulder and abdomen throb. Soon after, she began thinking of what had happened at Trost – risking everything to save her division only to lose almost all of them, Marco helping her and ending up lost himself – and revisiting this notion that it was apparently so easy to abandon your fellow man. Yet again Mercedes felt like she had glimpsed humanity's true, selfish nature, as thoughtlessly enslaved to their own desires as the Titans were to their appetites. And she was part of it, made accomplice to it not of her own free will.

Mercedes thought of Eren's ability and what she had witnessed when he had carried the boulder. She remembered the words her torturers had hissed at her – just as her skin had hissed when the molten gold splashed onto it – titan-shifter.  _ They all may as well be Titans in human form, _ she thought.

She stopped above the gate into the Karanese District and looked into the bright, beautiful and terrifying land beyond the Wall. It felt so close, like she could touch it if she reached out a hand, and yet so far away.

"You can do this. Just hold out a little longer."

The thought of hundreds of thousands of human beings with Titan-like gluttony for their own survival behind her, pressing at her back, made her skin crawl and reminded her of the horror she'd felt not in Trost, but in the tiny bathroom of the trainee dorm. Worse was the fact that they - and her - could be counted among the living.

The bell began to toll, bringing her back to the present. The sounds of cart wheels, horse hooves and whinnying were carried up to her on the wind, and the gate beneath her started to open.

_ The 57th Expedition, _ she remembered, and walked closer to the edge of the Wall.

The figures on horseback below her were so incredibly small it was almost pointless to watch, but she felt she needed to. Some distant part of her wished she had made an effort to tell them goodbye and good luck, just like that other distant part of her that wished she was going with them. Her eyes looked for Jean among them uselessly, as if it would provide clarity. Remembering how he'd stopped her from cutting all of her hair off, she wondered if she'd see him again. She still wanted to know why he cared enough to stop her.

The expedition was lost among the buildings and the sounds of their progress died away.

_ Your own mission starts now, _ she affirmed to herself as she walked away to catch up with Fhalz.  
  


* * *

_  
(The next day; the Interior) _

 

A stiff salute. “Sir.”

“Captain Ronan. I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”

“No, Sir. I come with news. We’ve found one.”

A surprised pause. “A Carello?”

“Yes, Sir. One Mercedes Carello - next of kin Julia Carello, of Klorva - formally enlisted in the Garrison yesterday, Eastern Detachment.”

Another pause, far less pleased. “In order to enlist, she must first have been in training. Was it not your objective to locate any Carellos in your monitoring of the new recruits? I thought you reported that the only lead was a Carello on the initial Western Division roster that ended up being a misprint, and that the trail had then gone cold?”

“Yes, Sir, but -”

“Do I need to recommend that Commander Dawk find a new Captain?”

“No, Sir. Apologies, Sir. I am not positive how she evaded notice or did not appear on the rosters, unless they were tampered with and she was hidden some kind of way.”

“And here I thought I’d found the sort of mind who would anticipate such a possibility and take measures to explore it on my behalf. Evidently my confidence was misplaced. Dismissed. I’ll investigate this myself.”  
  


* * *

  
Here. They'd been standing here, at this particular spot on Wall Rose - they'd stood here the day they'd agreed to guard Eren so he could block the breach; they'd stood here countless times before then, her and Ian. She could remember the color of the sky the day she'd almost told him - lavender and gold. They'd always remind her of him.

Rico breathed in deep. The sky hadn't been that color since the day Ian died; she wouldn't let herself miss it. She wouldn't let herself miss him, either, though that was harder. It was too late to tell him anything so why should stupidity and cowardice be assauged with nostalgia? She was left with a void and she'd force herself to be content with it for the rest of her life.

A cloudy day; a windy day that whipped her hair against her glasses. She strode along the very edge of the Wall and watched the Titans milling around the killing fields. Ever since the Trost reclamation her hatred for them had become much more personal, much more insidious. She barely seemed able to talk or even think about anything else - she felt like her body was merely a vessel for hate, for humanity's mission. Although it hadn't taken the Commanders long to fill the four empty spots in her squad lineup, it certainly wasn't the same and she doubted it'd ever be - sometimes she struggled to recall their names and couldn't find the patience for civility much less pleasantries, and so they often left her alone, as most people did - even her parents wrote less often, and her superiors kept their distance.

So it was with some surprise that she heard a voice calling her name. With a sneer she turned away from the Titans and faced the two figures approaching her, one an Aide from Woerman that she thought too soft and as a result detested, and the second one she didn't recognize: a young woman - younger than she was, likely from the the 104th or 105th if she had to guess - about her height with dark hair in a braid, Garrison uniform and a confident walk. Rico racked her brain trying to determine what this may be about.

_ Oh. _ She remembered.  _ Pixis' wildcard, here for shadowing. What was her name… _

The idea, when it'd come down the line to her, she'd thought pointless - stupid, even. A waste of her time and certainly a test of her patience. But she'd nothing else in her but hate and duty, duty and hate, so she hadn't objected, merely pushed it aside until it manifested. And here it was. Here she was.

The Aide and the new girl stopped in front of her; both saluted but Rico did not return the gesture.

The Aide looked nervously to one side, in the girl's direction but not quite at her, as though for backup. "Squad Leader Brzenska - Commander Pixis asked me to -"

"I know," Rico cut her off, tired already by the few words in that nasally voice. She held out her hand for the file the Aide carried under her arm. "You can go now."

The Aide pouted and barely concealed a hurt glare, but Rico didn't care. The file was handed over and without a salute, the Aide turned and left.

Rico, out of habit, waited for the Aide to be out of earshot and then gave a cursory glance into the first couple of pages of the file, angling it so the wind wouldn't snatch it out of her hands. Mercedes Carello. Recent enlistee, assigned to her in the Eastern Detachment per special instruction by Commander Pixis; prior position with the Western Detachment of the Garrison. Good statistics. She didn't need to know the rest right now - didn't care to. Rico folded the file shut and tucked it under her arm.

The eyes she met were dark and hard, like clots of dried blood. She was now able to see that Carello had cut the hair on the right side of her head close to her scalp, and almost rolled her eyes. She wanted to immediately resent Carello for something - for her prettiness struck with possibly false bravado, for the youthful pridefulness leaking from her, anything - something more than the inconvenience of being forced to take her on as a protege, but struggled to do so. She was also silent, which didn't give Rico anything to latch onto yet, either; she debated looking back in the file for some kind of hangnail, something to tear the girl down with before they'd even begun. She resisted.

"Aren't you going to say anything?" Rico half-grunted.

The slightest quirk of Carello's eyebrows. "Do you want me to?"

Rico paused before retorting - it hadn't been insubordination, exactly, to not include her title at the end of that question, but it certainly gave a new shade of meaning. Like she understood what she was up against. It made her wonder if Carello had been briefed about  _ her _ in much the same way as they'd attempted to brief Rico about Carello. Still. "Little early for you to be a smartass, isn't it?"

"Apologies, Sir." Carello did not straighten, or change her expression or rather bored tone.

"Impatient with your new assignment already?"

"No. It's only that I didn't think you wanted a timewaster," Carello said.

"Got that right," Rico conceded.

The two of them stood there in silence, Carello settling her gaze on the polite and ready middle-distance of a good soldier, her hands tucked behind her. Rico looked away, this time at Trost, her hometown. Suddenly she wanted to go home. Why that momentary weakness - held at arm's length for so long - was brought up and so vehemently now, of all times, in front of Carello of all people was a mystery. Rico kept her face neutral, turned back to her new subordinate.

“What did you do in the Battle of Trost?” As soon as she’d asked Rico thought she’d been too vague - after all, it was obvious what everyone did in the Battle of Trost - fought, and lived or died.

Carello, however, seemed to detect her true meaning and her demand for honesty. “I disobeyed orders to remain in the middle guard - instead, I led two squads to run gear to my fellow Western Division, who were stranded in the breach zone. The rescue attempt was a failure and only eleven of us got out alive.”

“That’s right,” said Rico. “You did that.” She had known. Well, almost everyone knew at this point. The fact that Carello hadn’t denied it was encouraging - albeit surprising - and useful. She needed to break her down a little before she could build her back up. "You're here to shadow me and I'm well aware that Pixis wants you fast-tracked to Elite since we lost so many in the Trost Reclamation, so in order to do that I need you to report to me as your immediate supervisor, do exactly what I tell you and when you're not working, to be listening and watching. I will not waste my time explaining. I will not repeat myself, or go slowly - I presume if Pixis wants you to do this then you're capable of hitting the ground running. Am I wrong?"

"No, Sir."

"Good. Have you moved barracks?"

"Yes, Sir."

Rico took Carello's file in both hands and methodically tapped its spine in her palm. "Then at oh-six-hundred sharp tomorrow morning I expect you to report to this same spot; we'll start by reviewing the guard and maintenance rotations before our weekly meeting with Deputy Commander Woerman. Clear?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Good. Now that's settled, you're dismissed."

"There's nothing you need before then?"

Rico was surprised by the faintest element of a plea in Carello's voice, like she wanted the distraction for some reason.  _ A workaholic, maybe, _ she thought. It wasn't surprising considering the guilt she likely felt about Trost. "I wasn't thinking of that," she said.

"That's one of the reasons I'm here, I suspect."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves." Rico paused sourly, but when Carello wasn't going away she said, "Eager to get started already?"

"Why wait? I don't think either of us would benefit from it." Carello managed to sound like she was shrugging with just her voice, and Rico had to admit finding it amusing.

"Perhaps not." She took a deep breath, and though reluctant to leave the seclusion of the Wall for the first time in a while she felt that Ian would have wanted her to, for a change. "Come on, then, rookie," she grumbled. They began walking toward the elevator - Carello matched her swift pace but rather than annoying, it was encouraging. Nevertheless, Rico was determined not to like her.


	13. Suspicions & Obsessions

**Chapter 12**

_Summer, Year 850_

 

As they walked from Eren’s room to the inner council room where Erwin was waiting for them, Jean glanced out of the cloisters at the sunshine. It succeeded in seeming oppressive rather than gentle - it had barely been twenty-hour hours since the capture of the Female Titan in Stohess.

 _No, the capture of Annie,_ he forced himself to admit. The betrayal still stung. _Why is nothing straightforward anymore?_

He wondered if they would have recognized sooner who she really was if she had joined the Scouting Legion with them. After all, their core group was fairly tight-knit, even with the more distant ones such as Annie. Although he could now deduce that she’d likely joined the Military Police for the same ulterior motives that had led to her being a shifter, the nostalgic part of him couldn’t help but feel there was some kind of mercy in her peeling away from them at that disbanding ceremony.

How long ago that seemed, even though it’d been only about a month. As Jean followed Armin into the cool interior of the building he was reminded of the cool of that spring night, and the long shadows and strips of light created by the wall windows to their right may as well have been the retreating figures of the 104th as Commander Erwin dismissed them to other divisions. He remembered their faces turned away from the light. Preposterous as he knew it to be, he almost felt like everyone who’d left the yard that day was equally as suspect.

 _Annie had gone with them. What if she wasn’t the only shifter among them? After all, we thought Eren was the only one and then...and then her._ Despite logic telling him to give it up, that it was only paranoia, he tried to remember the faces. But only two came to mind - Annie, of course, and - Jean pushed a hand in his pocket, met a glossy lock of hair - _Mercedes._ He hadn’t seen her since the Disbanding. _She could be dead for all I know._ But even as he thought of the possibility he knew deep down it wasn’t true, and that was worse.

He remembered her injuries that day when they sparred, her personality change, how she’d stopped talking to pretty much everyone and how strange it’d seemed that someone like her wanted to stay on the Walls instead of venture outside them. When they’d seen her again at the Disbanding she’d been as stoic as Annie. They still didn’t know what had happened to her.

_What if…_

“Jean?”

Jean looked up, withdrew his hand from his pocket. Armin was a few paces ahead of him and was turning around curiously - Jean hadn’t realized he’d stopped.

“You okay?”

Was it worth voicing? He and Armin had been talking more and more lately, sharing strategies and speculations and such, but this seemed a little far-fetched, too new a thought. And besides, his stomach was turning at the mere hypothetical thought of Marco unwittingly having feelings for such a creature. “It’s nothing. Come on, we’re going to be late.” Jean began walking again.

“It doesn’t look like nothing,” Armin tried to smile.

Jean paused beside his friend. Armin looked tired; the fact that he was still willing to indulge his whims made gratefulness settle in Jean’s chest, which beat back his rising anxiety and frustration over Annie and Mercedes - over how he wasn’t smart enough, or intuitive enough. He tucked his lips into his mouth to chew on them before he answered. “We didn’t expect Annie,” he began hesitantly.

“Who could?” Armin offered and his gaze dropped to the floor.

“There could be more of them,” Jean said lowly. “I was just wondering who else might be a shifter, and -” he cut himself short.

Armin finished for him, “You’re thinking of someone in particular. Who?”

“I don’t know why, but - Mercedes,” he admitted.

Armin hesitated, and then said, “You’ve never liked her. I wish I knew why - it seemed like you’d get along. You didn’t like the idea of one day her coming between you and Marco, did you?”

“That’s not what this is about,” Jean scoffed. “I’m being objective as I can, Armin,” he said, even though he was startled by how right Armin was.

Armin shrugged, ran a hand over the nape of his neck.

Jean continued quickly. “I keep thinking about how strange she acted before the Disbanding Ceremony, and how we never found out what happened to her to cause that. Not to mention, don’t you feel it was a bit weird that someone like her didn’t join the Scouting Legion? What if she’s waiting for the right moment, like Annie?” It sounded stupider said aloud, and Jean regretted sharing. He waved a hand and kept walking. “Forget it.”

“If you think it’s a valid concern, we can bring it up to the Commander - we can never be too careful, now,” Armin said and followed him. They passed through one door and into another hallway, darker. “I didn’t realize you’d been thinking about that - about her.”

“Me neither.”  


* * *

_  
(Two days later; en route to rescue Eren) _

 

The thunder of the horse hooves of the squad had become a dull roar in the back of Jean’s head. The anger that had felt so all-consuming and chaotic atop Wall Rose an hour ago had, equally, been reduced a rolling boil: the knowledge that there were more titan-shifters - and that yes, those shifters were yet again some of those closest to him - was a lump in his throat that had now sunk and settled in the pit of his empty stomach.

Jean scanned the horizon and the scribble of the edge of the forest, where they were headed. Erwin led them into another dodge. _Reiner...Bertholdt...Ymir, too. How many more are there? Why did I have to be proven right?_

He glanced to his right, several meters away, as one of the Military Police soldiers that’d come with them was ripped asunder. Jean looked away, trying to focus on the task at hand.

_How many more of them? How many less of us? Who else? Who next?_

He dodged a Titan’s grab, forcing his horse to make an elaborate dance to get back into formation. Abruptly Jean remembered a time in training - one of the first times they’d done any real horse-work: Mercedes had been with them that day, and she’d shown off her experience with horses and Shadis had let her show off. How she’d practically dropped off the side of her saddle to avoid the prop Titan’s grab, how another time she’d stood on the horse’s back as it ran in order to fire a good line, how he’d secretly practiced that same move to himself whenever the opportunity arose. How she’d ridden circles around them and how offended he’d been by the rare look of joy and liberation in her face.

 _Why isn’t she out here with us?_ Jean surprised himself with the thought, not because of the genuine confusion over it, but by how affronted he was about it. Like she’d abandoned them to this horrible task when they could have used her. Like she’d had a choice. _She did have a choice - she walked away,_ he reminded himself, and reminded himself too that his suspicions about her had not died. Annie had walked away - Mercedes had walked away. _How dare she walk away._  


* * *

_  
(Four days later) _

 

It was their second day at the chalet; the others were either sound asleep upstairs or on watch. Jean had woken from a bad dream – not quite a nightmare, but not pleasant enough to be classed as a regular dream – and he'd spent the next hour tossing and turning. At last he’d retreated to the underbelly of the stronghold  -- its kitchen. The fire to cook the evening meal had long since died down to smoldering coals, but it was enough for him to light a single candle. He was glad no one else was around to see how lame he looked sitting at a prep table by himself.

He'd dreamt of her again. Mercedes. And Marco, actually. It hadn't been the first time but this one had been more potent. He pinched his nose to give his sinuses some relief, like the dream had cloyed them.

It had started at the funeral pyre – the one they'd cremated Marco on. Unlike in the waking world, this time he had seen them place his body onto it. Mercedes was on the other side of the flames just as she had been after Trost, only this time she actually climbed up into it, walking unharmed into the flames, her clothes, hair and eyes becoming fire, until she came to Marco's body. She had pulled him to his feet and somehow he'd stood there, the lost half of his body regenerating into flames until he was solid flesh and bone again. As much as he cringed to remember it now, Jean had watched her wrap her arms around Marco and kiss him, the two of them standing there on that pyre of misery as the flames grew ever stronger, until they were obscured in blue and gold.

He'd woken sweaty and feverish, as though he really had been standing in front of a ten-foot fire. It wasn't the only time he'd dreamt of Marco's corpse or funeral pyre. No, what had really unnerved him was the confusing, horrible mix of feelings the appearance of Mercedes had provoked in him. Amazement, disgust, relief, fear – it was all there. Most disturbing of all was a dark, twisted sort of envy: that in this dreamworld she was managing to be closer to Marco than he would ever be again; but also, obscurely, that unlike him even in death Marco had found out the truth about her through that kiss - in this world, all Jean's mouth tasted was ash.

 _Stop it, you're being ridiculous,_ he told himself. _Don’t let Armin be right about you not wanting her to come between you and Marco. It was just a dream. You need to let the both of them go. The Commander said not to worry about Mercedes, and Marco is dead. Stop thinking about them. Stop thinking about_ her _._

Jean's body betrayed him, however. His hand pushed into the pocket of his pajama trousers and drew out the lock of Mercedes' hair. He brought it between him and the candle to examine, pulling it through and wrapping it around his fingers, watching the light glimmer off its inkiness. He wasn't sure why he'd kept it. Over the last few months it'd grown a little thinner due to being unsecured and losing hairs here and there, but its strange hold over him hadn't lessened. He'd heard of powers of control before – taking something of the other person, like hair, and using it as part of a spell to get them to do whatever you wanted, or injure them – but he'd never thought the stories carried any weight until now. Wasn't he supposed to be able to affect her, in that case, rather than the other way around?

 _What would happen if I…_ he held the lock high above the candle's flame, tracing its wave and languid spiral down from his thumb and forefinger to its tip, waving at him in the tiny column of heat dissipating into the dark. _If I burnt it, would she burn? Would I stop dreaming of her, of him?_

Almost of its own accord, or as if someone was pulling him back, Jean retracted the lock from the flame and put his head in his hands. The cool strand of hair brushed against his cheek and the small enjoyment he got from the sensation made him snap to attention. He checked the kitchen – still vacant. His hands fell back together in front of him, stroking the lock some more as he frowned and thought.

 _I don't know if I want to stop dreaming,_ he admitted. _It's all I have. The others,_ he thought of his squadmates, _they have each other, or they want to save humanity – my purpose isn't as clear anymore. Maybe it burned itself out._

Without fully comprehending his actions, Jean laid the hair on the table, tidied it, and then lifted the candle - he tilted it until the flame began to wave wildly and molten wax dripped from it in quickening and fattening drops on one end of the lock. He continued this until the end was completely covered, let it harden, and then peeled it up to repeat the process on the other side to encase the end completely.

“Jean?”

Jean jumped a little, nearly dropping the candle. Armin came into the kitchen. “Ar-Armin, hey. What’re you doing up?” He set the candle down and tried to peel the lock off the table as quickly as possible. He cursed the heat in his cheeks.

“What’re _you_ doing up? Is that... _hair_?” Armin sat down opposite him.

Jean’s shoulders hunched and he looked away, but knew how stupid it would be to deny it. He molded the still-soft wax with his fingertips so he could safely tuck it away.

“That’s Mercedes’ hair, isn’t it? No one else has hair like that.” Armin’s smile made the heat in Jean’s cheeks erupt into a full-body flush.

He coiled the hair and pushed it back into his trouser pocket. “No way, no. It’s not hers, it’s…” but he couldn’t come up with a believable lie.

“Jean you know it’s all right? I’m not going to tell anybody,” Armin assured him. “I’m just surprised, is all. You must have had that for a while? She cut her hair a while ago.”

Jean didn’t feel rude enough to outright leave, but was still too embarrassed to speak. He was even more outdone by the fact that he was embarrassed - what was there to be embarrassed about? It wasn’t like him keeping this was some kind of…

“I thought you didn’t like her?” Armin said.

“I don’t,” Jean said immediately. _Now that makes you sound especially stupid._

There was quiet for a few long moments; the heat in Jean’s face and neck began to cool. He wasn’t sure what to say to improve his situation or even if he should say anything at all, or what there was to say. He wasn’t sure of his thoughts himself.

“If you don’t like her...then why keep it?” Armin said quietly. “Just the other day you were talking like she was potentially another shifter. Like you hated her.”

At length, Jean sighed. “It’s easy to forget it’s hers, having not seen her in so long. Would you believe me if I said it’s taken on some other kind of meaning? Not that I know what that meaning is… You probably think I’m stupid, huh?” He folded his arms on the table and tucked his chin behind them. In the pause that followed he recalled his mother, how she kept a lock of his baby hair in a little box on her dresser -- he used to think it weird, but he thought he was beginning to understand, now. He also suddenly realized why she kept his father’s handkerchief in her pocket.

Armin broke the thoughtful silence. “We all have talismans of some kind, physical or not. So no, I don’t think you’re stupid. Becoming a little obsessed, maybe.”

Jean glanced up, eyes narrowed. “Obsessed?”

Armin was smiling crookedly at him. “You don’t have to like someone to be obsessed with them.”

“You think I’m becoming obsessed? With Mercedes, of all people?” Jean sat up and back, bringing his folded arms over his chest.

Armin’s smile became even more crooked, and he raised his eyebrows. “You have her hair in your pocket, Jean.”

Jean rolled his eyes. He stood. “I’m going to bed.”


	14. The Contingency Plan

**Chapter 13**

_ Summer, Year 850 _

 

Erwin read over the hasty scribble on the paper Nifa had brought him; the young woman herself stood anxiously nearby, wiping sweat from her brow with the heel of her hand and looking between the two Commanders. 

“As I thought,” Erwin said to himself, and then more loudly when he looked across at Pixis, “It seems my gamble has paid off - it’s possible to replace the King without killing, if we let Historia Reiss take the throne as Queen.”

Pixis raised his eyebrows, crossed his legs the other way. “Admittedly that’s reassuring, but are we so certain that such a thing would be so simple to do? I doubt King Fritz would be dethroned if we simply asked him. And are you so sure Miss Reiss is capable - much less willing - to take on such a responsibility?”

“She will be,” Erwin said. “And what choice do we have? Unless we change who sits on that throne, like you say nothing will change for soldiers or the people. We will never know the truth.”

“Of course. But what I’m asking you,” Pixis unfolded himself and leant forward, something of his familiar mischief in his eyes, “is whether you have a Plan B. I know you do not tend to believe in them, but with something of this nature I recommend it, even if I perhaps do not want to hear it.”

Erwin had thought about that; he simply wasn’t expecting it to be asked about. He smiled. “I will need a sharpshooter.”

Pixis’ eyebrows rose again, the mischief gone and his eyes wider this time. 

“What did you expect?” Erwin asked. “We will do what is necessary.”

Pixis grumbled to himself. “I suspect I know the answer to this, too, but: where do you intend to find a good enough sharpshooter outside the Military Police willing to be involved in such a contingency plan? Don’t you have Braus, on the Special Operations Squad?”

“I need her on that squad. In the meantime, I hear you have a spare Carello.”  
  


* * *

_  
(The next day) _

 

Erwin and Nifa stopped their horses at the edge of the small knoll. Sure enough, as the Karanese Garrison barracks had advised, below them stretched a small plain in front of Wall Rose, with its great shadow and the blazing morning sunshine splitting the grass and meadowflowers into two  sheets -- one of ink and one of gilding -- and the line between them curved away, seemingly stitched into place by a staggered line of eight logs with something much smaller on top of them glinting back at him. 

A long ways away from the row, in the light, was a young woman with dark hair pulled back in a braid and a rifle pressed to her shoulder, aiming toward the logs. She was out of uniform, and turned away from them. 

Erwin waited, the hot wind blustering around his ears. After a long minute, the rifle was fired with a  _ krap-pow _ that echoed around the wide space, and something jumped off one of the logs with a distant  _ clank _ . Smoke from the rifle shredded away in the wind. The rifle was lowered until its butt rested in the grass, and she began to reload the muzzle slowly and methodically.

“Wait here for me,” Erwin said to Nifa and dismounted, handing her the reins of his horse.

“Sir?” Nifa was eyeing the woman -- or, more specifically, the rifle.

“It’s fine.”

As he descended the slope, his boots grinding into the chalky soil, Erwin reflected on two days prior when Armin and Jean had voiced a burgeoning suspicion regarding Mercedes Carello being another potential shifter. Of course, he hadn’t been able to divulge more than a calm reassurance that nothing could be further than the truth - which had, of course, frustrated the younger soldiers further, particularly Jean. Even now, the concept was almost laughable. The Carellos would be the last ones to do such a thing.

Erwin stopped a few feet away from her. Although she must have heard him coming, she did not turn from what she was doing. “How far away are the logs?” he called to her.

Again slowly, again methodically, she set her rifle firmly against a nearby pile of weed-covered forgotten timber. At last she turned to face him, and saluted. “From one hundred to two hundred yards, Sir.” Her foot nudged an open flour bag full of half-rusted, half-glimmering empty cans -- presumably her targets.

_ About ninety to one hundred and eighty meters. Perfect,  _ he thought. Erwin smiled and regarded her for a long moment, collecting memories and current plans together in his mind and weaving them together. Her face remained blank, expectant -- more like her uncle, Joaquin, in that respect than her parents or grandmother, even though she could easily be her grandmother’s younger Doppelganger. “The second-to-last time I saw you, it was at your family ranch outside Wall Maria. We had brought back your uncle Rafael to be laid to rest,” he said, and watched her face begin to cloud over in confusion. “You were three. As your father welcomed us in, you were leaning out of your bedroom window and managed to fire a rock at me with your slingshot.” He gestured to the back of his head, “Hit me right here.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember.”

He shook his head. “No need to be. You were defending your home,” he said mock-seriously. “It didn’t hurt that bad, though your mother did send you to bed without supper that night.” He paused. “The very last time I saw you - the both of you, in fact - was when we ran into you retreating to the Wall. Only a few of us knew who you were, but Shadis was adamant that we pretend to be ignorant. We lost track of you both after that.”

Mercedes’ eyes looked around the ground, unsure of what to say.

“Do you know who I am?” Erwin asked next. The wind grew stronger, stirring the calls of a hawk overhead.

She looked up again. Her eyebrows quirked ever so slightly. “Who doesn’t know who you are, Sir,” she said.

“I suppose that’s true,” he admitted. 

Mercedes stepped closer to her rifle, reached around it for a canteen and uncapped it to take a sip. “What brings you here, Commander? Not to swap memories of my childhood, I’m sure.” Her tone was surprisingly laid-back for a seventeen year-old; it had a tint of jadedness to it that he couldn’t fault her for but wondered about nonetheless.

“No,” he agreed and walked closer. He leant against the rock and in the process, his shadow eclipsed her.  Erwin lowered his chin and stared at her, "What do you know of what happened the last few days outside the Wall, when the Scouting Legion was trying to find the breach that supposedly let the Titans in in the dead of night? What do you know about the Armored and Colossal Titans?"

She did not answer immediately; her gaze assessing his own. Eventually she admitted quietly, "Usually I'm able to gather a little information about the goings-on with the Scouting Legion, but lately there's been nothing. Even when I was helping with the defense, Squad Leader Brzenska wouldn’t tell me anything." She looked away, into the distance where the shadow of the Wall crept agonizingly over the ground, over her targets. 

"As it should be,” Erwin nodded to himself. “What I'm about to relay is confidential. I'm afraid I don't have the luxury of relaying every detail, but suffice it to say that the shifter identities of the Colossal and Armored Titans was uncovered to be Bertholdt Hoover and Reiner Braun, respectively. It was also discovered that Ymir, another trainee from the Southern District of the 104th, is another shifter. They were defeated, though not without casualties and not without other critical information coming to light, which brings me to why I'm here."

He could see her curiosity in the way her body had turned to him and how her eyeline had risen to his shoulder, though she was doing well to keep it in check. 

He continued slowly, "The Military Police isn't entirely under the control of the Brigade, and neither does the King hold ultimate dominion. There is in fact a significant cult of 'Wallists' – individuals who uphold the Walls themselves as godlike figures – that is pulling many of the strings that hold our society together. There is so much conspiracy surrounding their actions that to consider them as custodians of humanity's wellbeing is to speak an outright lie. They are also seeking to kidnap Historia Reiss." At Mercedes' confused expression, he clarified, "The girl you know as Krista Lenz. She is an heir to the throne – one we, the Survey Corps, intend to install."

"You mean, overthrow the current government," Mercedes paraphrased.

He nodded. In the tense quiet that followed, he asked, “And the Walls themselves - do you know anything about them?”

“Only that our geology does not produce the kind of stone they’re made of.”

He smiled at her, pleased. "You're correct. They were, in fact, made by Titans - and Titans remain inside them.” The barely-disguised look of revulsion on her face was nearly comical. “We're uncertain exactly how or why, but we do know that at the same time, it contributed toward much of humanity's memories being altered – wool being pulled over our eyes for the last century." Erwin slowly stood and wandered a small ways into the strengthening haze of the late morning heat. "Tomorrow, Eren and Historia will ride with the rest of Squad Levi down a prominent street. I have every confidence that they will be captured by a middleman – members of the Reeves Company that are in reality working for us – and thus we can track them to the real power behind the throne: Lord Rod Reiss, Historia's father. I myself have already spoken to Commander Pixis regarding our plan in order to gain his support - or at least his passivity.”

“Why are you telling me all of this?”

Erwin turned around to face her. Her eyes were half-closed. While he hadn’t been expecting outright compliance or even interest, this level of unimpressed skepticism -- verging on impertinence -- wasn’t what he was counting on; it was a far cry from the ready loyalty of the rest of her family. Even Joaquin hadn’t been this jaded and for it to be present in so young a person was discouraging -- he sincerely doubted her childhood with Julia had caused it, and it didn’t seem wholly correct to pin the blame on the Battle of Trost, either. But, he had to admit its usefulness, and that the cause didn’t matter. It was a sign of intelligence, and likely of a much more deeply-rooted uncertainty that he could exploit. 

He moistened his lips. "Once we knew you had joined the Garrison, Pixis and I agreed that you be fast-tracked and granted the ability to move virtually unrestricted," he continued, "and it has been in preparation for this. If the overthrow of the current government, as you put it, does not go to plan and if Pixis is not able to support us, there are two things I am asking you to do. First, to secure the escape of as many Scouting Legion soldiers as you can – prioritizing Eren."

Mercedes folded her arms. “I don’t see how I can help you any more than one of your own men. In case you didn’t notice, Commander, I joined the Garrison - not the Scouting Legion.”

Her impertinence had gone a little too far, even for him. “This is no longer about divisions - this is about humanity as a  whole.”

Unperturbed, she bared her teeth at him, then, in an odd sort of half-smile that reminded him of her father -- in an uncomfortable way because of her words, “You seem so very certain that I’m the type interested in humanity.”

Erwin hesitated. He hadn’t expected that response -- it pointed to his earlier half-formed theory that something else had given her this dark outlook and he had to wonder why, if she was not interested in humanity, she still pursued her military career -- which in turn pointed to something potentially even darker. But time was of the essence and he had little options. He had to continue forward with his initial line of persuasion and hope for the best. 

Mercedes had taken advantage of his hesitation, and taken up her rifle again and stepped away. The dry grass crunched under her boots. She aimed quickly and in the next moment, fired, knocking down the can farthest away. He hadn’t realized she was done with the line; she grabbed the bag of cans with a loud jangle and slung the rifle over her shoulder, walking swiftly away to lay more targets. Erwin briefly debated letting her go, not finishing the second part of his request.

_ No. I cannot let her go. If I don’t influence her path now, she will either be yet another slaughtered Carello or worse -- a corrupted one.  _

And so he followed her into the field. He called out to her before she crossed into the shadow, “Do you know why it surprised me to hear that you and your grandmother were alive and well? That she’d let you join the military?” 

Mercedes stopped and turned. Erwin saw something even more unusual in her expression - a brief flash of fear and anger, like a cornered animal. He spoke again to quickly placate whatever it was.

“ The Carellos have a history of loyalty to humanity’s cause, and in particular with the Scouting Legion. While your parents were never part of any military faction, they helped us a great deal by supplying horses – even running them or other needed materials to us while we were out on expeditions. They also did a lot of exploring of their own, and their notes often informed our own expeditions. No one knows what happened to them." He took a steadying breath, clenched his fists. “A few of us do, however, know what happened to your uncles and grandfather. All served in various divisions and were well-respected. All met their untimely ends at the hands of the current regime, including, I suspect, your parents. All of them, except for your grandmother -- and you.”

Her jaw had grown slack; the threat in her eyes had died into confusion. 

“Did you not know any of this?” he asked softly over the space between them, letting the wind carry it to her. Had Julia truly not told her? Had she never asked?

Mercedes seemed to regain herself. She readjusted her grip on the bag of cans and they clinked together. She set her expression into a frown that was briefly childlike, and then the scorn of an adult. “What does this have to do with why you’re here talking to me, Commander?”

His tone remained measured. "I brought up your family history so that you can more fully understand the second request I’m here to make of you. So you can perhaps see why it’s you I’m asking."

There was a moment of silence that felt like several minutes, in which he let her grapple with her thoughts. She slowly set the bag of cans in the grass, pushed hair off her forehead, looked anywhere but him until the defensiveness in her face softened, as if she’d forgotten he was there. Both of her hands hung on to the rifle strap hanging from her shoulder.

Then, at last Erwin closed the distance between them and spoke quietly, solemnly, "If all else fails, on behalf of all that's left of humanity, I don't want to but must ask – can you be prepared to kill the King?" 

Mercedes' mouth parted; her eyes cut across to him and widened. She practically snarled, "What – why me?" 

"I have faith in your ability to escape, should it need to be done."

"That is treason, Sir. Compliance with treason…"

"I never said it wasn't."

Her eyebrows rose. "My 'ability to escape'?” She shook her head, “That's not enough – not enough reason to ask –"

"You're right, it isn't quite enough." Erwin leaned forward, placed his one remaining hand on her shoulder and stared her directly in the eyes, which were a fiery cognac color in the afternoon sun. He expected her to flinch away from him but she did not, which was encouraging. "You're not shaking in the face of this request. Your first instinct wasn't to say no, but to ask for the reasoning behind it. That is why."

Mercedes averted her gaze. 

"I believe you have the fortitude, as well as the skill," Erwin added as he removed his hand and stood back upright. "With your unrestricted movement, you'd be able to get closer without question than if you were a member of the Survey Corps. Yet I’d hazard a guess that considering you still kept to your military path -- and have not taken the opportunity to abandon everyone --  means that you are still searching for clarity, and for something to believe in. This is how you’ll find it. Deep down, you know that too. What may appear to be a crisis of confidence is in fact the motivation, the conviction, that sets you apart."

Mercedes looked at him again. He wasn’t sure whether the conflict in her expression would resolve itself in acceptance, a snide retort, another walking-away, or her shooting him.

He smiled at her. "I won't demand an answer.” He shifted feet, preparing to move away. “If you do decide that this is something you can help us with, meet Nifa there,” he tipped his head in her direction, saw she was talking with a short auburn-haired Garrison soldier, “at the Rose Memorial Bridge at Eight this evening, sharp. Ten minutes late and she will have left.”

Her expression didn’t change. “How do you know I won’t just repeat everything you’ve told me to my superiors?”

“Because this is your revolution as well as ours, Mercedes,” said Erwin. He nodded at her bangle glinting in the sun. “Jaguars don’t do well in captivity.”


	15. Hesitance

**Chapter 14**

_Summer, Year 850_

 

Mercedes kept the scowl on her face even as Commander Smith turned and walked away from her. She watched him cross the field and ascend the slope; she watched Fhalz, who had arrived not long after the conversation began, move away from Nifa as he approached; she watched the Commander pull himself into his saddle, and the two of them leave. Her gaze floated downward to pitch in the grass.

Her mind was too loud. Her body felt rigid, unable to move her from this spot or even release her hands from the rifle strap. She simultaneously felt as though -- by virtue of the knowledge imparted to her -- all eyes were on her, but also incredibly alone. The sound of the locusts rising with the heat made it worse.

_There’s no reason for him to have bluffed, or to tell me the Legion’s plans if they weren’t true. But that stuff about my family… Julia never told me any of that. He could have lied to try to manipulate me into agreeing to this. He thinks I’d want revenge._

“Hey. What was that all about?”

Mercedes blinked a few times, suddenly presented with a more pressing issue. She looked up at Fhalz, who approached her with what looked like the lunch they’d agreed on. He was squinting at her as he came down the slope. She didn’t know whether to tell him and if so, what to omit. The day abruptly felt like it was stretching ahead to the length of an entire year and with it, the mere prospect of meeting Nifa at Eight p.m. seemed so very far away. Meet her for what? To go where? To kill --

“‘Cee?” Fhalz prompted again when he reached her and she still hadn’t moved.

“Hey,” she said. “Thanks for lunch.”

He pulled the package away from her when she tried to take it and raised his eyebrows implicitly.

Mercedes sighed. “I can’t tell you.”

“Are we really doing this again?”

“Yes.”

Fhalz’s hands dropped by his sides. “‘Cee I’ll cut you a deal. Either you tell me what happened about a year ago that made you cut your hair off, or you tell me why Commander Erwin was here talking to you. Otherwise, I swear to all that’s holy I will transfer to another brigade and you will never hear from me again. I am seriously beginning to doubt that we’re friends at all.”

Mercedes knew Fhalz didn’t make idle threats -- idle insults, sure, but not threats, and especially not to her. She believed him. And she wanted to tell him. Well, rather, she was more willing to tell him about her conversation with Erwin than what happened in Trost a year ago. She wandered back to the old timber pile and set the rifle and bag of cans down, sat in the grass and gestured for him to do the same.

“Fine,” she mumbled. “But I can’t tell you everything.”

“Even if you could you probably wouldn’t,” he muttered back and sat with her, began to unpack their lunch between them. “You’re more stubborn than my uncle’s dog Mud.”

She’d met the dog. She smirked, “But prettier.”

“Not hard to do.” Fhalz unwrapped his hot sandwich and took a bite. “So.”

“First you tell me -- you seemed to know the girl with him, Nifa.”

“Aunt Laela’s daughter. She’s my cousin. Hadn’t seen her in years.”

“We really do live in a small world,” Mercedes said. She slowly peeled away the newspaper around her sandwich and glanced at the Wall. “I forget sometimes.” She thought of what Erwin had said -- about how the Walls were made by Titans and that, somehow, there were Titans still inside them. It was hard not to feel watched.

“You gonna tell me or what.”

Mercedes looked away. After a long moment she said, “He came to ask for my help, actually, strange as it sounds.” She took a bite -- it was still warm enough to be good.

“For what?”

Before the mouthful even hit her stomach she felt queasy again, remembering the request, and she hoped in speaking that she’d feel calmer about it. “This is confidential, by the way. He wants me to help with a mission in the capital. Jean’s new squad are...investigating something. There’s some corruption they’re attempting to stamp out, and...it may result in the deposing of King Fritz,” she forced out.

Fhalz’s face was blank and his voice deadpan as he said, “A coup. He wants you to help with a coup.”

“Yes.” She nodded once, more to the ground than to him. “To help secure the escape of as many Scouts as possible, making Eren Jaeger a priority, should it come to it. He didn’t ask me to agree just now -- if I agree, I show up to meet Nifa at Eight tonight.” She would not tell him the rest.

Fhalz squinted, put his food in his lap, “You’re not seriously thinking about doing it, are you? What if Woerman or Pixis hears about it? Or, fuck, just Rico hearing about it is enough.”

She didn’t look at him as she said, “Erwin told me that Pixis is in on it. I don’t have anything to fear in that regard.”

Fhalz sighed. She glanced up and saw him hesitate in the way that he readjusted his legs, wiped his nose, looked around the area. “But why you? Erwin shouldn’t know you from any other recruit. Couldn’t he use some of his own people to help the escape, if that’s all there is to it?”

Part of why they were friends was because he was sharp, she reflected.

“That’s not all he told you, is it? That’s not everything he asked,” Fhalz added, looking her directly in the eye.

For some reason, Mercedes felt the same trepidation about repeating anything Erwin had said about her family as she did repeating that he’d asked her to be prepared to kill the King. Both felt like two heavy stones in her hands, though they were far from concrete. But there wasn’t time to verify the former with Julia -- Klorva was too far of a ride -- and the latter might not even have to happen.

 _Yes, that’s it. There’s no point in telling him if neither are certain. No point in worrying him unnecessarily,_ she assured herself. Instead, she said with a shrug, “He’s just long-winded. I don’t know why they picked me.”

He looked at her for a moment longer than was necessary, then went back to his sandwich. “That’s some shit. I hope you didn’t buy it. Don’t get involved -- we should focus on our assigned role. Who knows what kind of trouble you might end up in.” He huffed to himself, “Actually treason -- you could end up charged with treason, that’s what.”

“I don’t intend for that to happen,” she said.

* * *

Mercedes glanced up at the high window in her bunkroom as she heard the clock strike Seven. The sky was a rich peach streaked with gray. She slowly stood and picked up the oxblood red wool jacket Julia had sent her this past winter -- more for anonymity rather than warmth.

_Time to go. It’ll take me about half an hour to reach the Rose Memorial Bridge from here, but the extra time will help if there’s any interruptions._

She stopped at the little mirror by the door that one of the other girls had managed to acquire somewhere and prop precariously across the jacket hooks. As she checked the security of the knife hooked onto her belt alongside her gear brace, she tried to see anything remarkable in her face -- surely by making this decision, something would mark her as changed? But there was nothing.

_Not yet._

Mercedes made her way out of the barracks, keeping her head down and her face neutral. Not having many friends here helped -- no one to stop her to make conversation. Rico had been away in Trost the past couple of days helping another squad get situated and wasn’t due back until tomorrow, which helped too. Mercedes slipped out before the change of shifts began; the halls were relatively quiet, but doors would soon be opening.

The stables were equally as quiet; at first she’d wondered if she needed to take Sabine but reasoned that it was better to err on the side of caution in case she and Nifa needed to travel a larger distance. She breathed in the smell of the hay and manure -- an oddly comforting smell, from childhood -- deeply, and walked to Sabine’s stall at the far end. The mare tossed her head and shifted side to side, grumbling a greeting.

“Hey girl,” Mercedes greeted back, unlatching the stall and brushing a hand down her jet-black snout. She draped the coat over the neighboring wall. “Let’s go out for the evening for a change, huh? I’ll find you an apple from somewhere when we get back.” She saddled and bridled her quickly and efficiently; Sabine stomped eagerly among the hay.

Once done, Mercedes grabbed her coat and led Sabine out. The mare waited of her own accord as Mercedes reached behind her to close the stall.

“I realized -- when I asked if you were seriously thinking about doing this -- that you didn’t give me a straight answer.”

Mercedes turned slowly at Fhalz’s voice -- he was still in uniform and gear, meaning he’d somehow got off his afternoon shift early. Though she felt oddly anxious for having been caught and called-out by him, she kept her expression calm and draped her coat in front of Sabine’s saddle. She mimicked him and folded her arms.

“That’s where you’re going, isn’t it?” he asked.

She thought about lying to him but quickly reconsidered. “I’ll be all right. Don’t you trust your cousin?”

“I trust her, sure, but not Erwin. And he’s not your Commander. There’s no need for you to go,” he let a whine into his voice. His face pinched. “I thought you were smarter than this.”

Mercedes raised her voice, “Fhalz I can’t tell you why I have to do this, but I think I do.”

His arms unfolded and his eyes grew wide. “You _‘think’_ you do? ‘Cee I’d want to be really fucking certain before I got mixed up in that mess.” He took a step forward, “What’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing!” She held onto Sabine’s bridle as the mare started to get anxious around the raised voices.

“He’s messing with your head!” Fhalz said. “Can’t you see that?”

“I doubt it --”

“But you don’t _know_ it! You and I -- neither of us ever act on anything we don’t know --”

Mercedes frowned. “What, you think this is some kind of personal betrayal? Because --”

“I’m just trying to look --”

“-- it’s not, and not all knowledge is concrete physical evidence. Some things you just know in your gut. Now if you’ll excuse me,” she led Sabine forward, pushing past her friend with her shoulder.

“No,” Fhalz grabbed her arm at the elbow and held hard, “I won’t let you. This is too risky and I won’t let you.”

As soon as she’d seen him she’d had a feeling this would happen, but wished it hadn’t. “I’m sorry.” She let go of Sabine’s reins.

Mercedes wouldn’t look him in the eye as she shoved him backward as hard as she could into the wall. He made contact with a clatter of gear and an ‘oof!’ and she was already there, pressing him to the wall by one shoulder and grabbing his forehead with her free hand. She knocked his skull hard against the wall; he dropped immediately.

Mercedes stood away and caught her breath, looked around -- no one. She wiped at her lip and looked down at Fhalz crumpled in the hay, then tutted and bent to rearrange him into a more comfortable position. “Sorry,” she muttered. “You weren’t going to listen to reason and I can’t have you tracking me. I owe you.”

She didn’t let herself dwell; a moment more and she led Sabine quickly out of the stables into the last of the evening light, pulled on her coat over her gear, mounted, and rode away at a trot.

The Rose Memorial Bridge was near the inner gate of Karanese, erected as a raising of the eastern main road rather than over water; beneath its arch was an agora for more niche merchants, such as alcohol, the cobbler, or tobacco. Names of fallen soldiers from more prominent families had been carved into the sides and rails of the bridge for a price among the decorative emblems of roses and the shield of Wall Rose itself. Business was dying for the night, and some honorable civilian was lighting the decorative lamps placed at the ends of the bridge. By Mercedes figured she had a few minutes to spare and wondered where exactly on or around the bridge she was meant to meet Nifa.

As the gloom of twilight began to settle Mercedes dismounted and led Sabine slowly onto the bridge itself, figuring it to be a decent compromise. She leaned against the bridge rail and stroked Sabine’s neck, listening to the sounds around her and taking in her surroundings in an attempt to calm the nerves that were becoming an unexpected nuisance.

 _Just because you’ve shown up today doesn’t mean you’ve ultimately committed to pulling that trigger, even if it comes to it at all,_ she told herself. _Wherever you’re going with Nifa, there will be more information and you can be better prepared that way. And if --_

“I’m glad you came.”

Mercedes turned to see Nifa with her own gray horse, smiling at her. She had a nondescript dark cape over her uniform despite the residual heat of the day. “Are you?”

Nifa shrugged, “Of course. We need all the help we can get. I know the Commander will be glad.”

Mercedes tried for a wan smile but didn’t quite make it. “Where are we going?”

“I’ll tell you when we’re out of Karanese. Just in case.” Nifa pulled herself into her saddle. “You understand, right?”

Mercedes didn’t answer, but pulled herself into her saddle too and followed Nifa. She pulled up the hood over her jacket and tried not to think about Fhalz.  


* * *

  
“It’s frustrating that all we can do is wait,” Jean muttered.

“There’s going to be many frustrations in life,” Hange said. “No sense in getting mad about them.”

Jean rolled his eyes. He went back to his pacing. The attic of the house in Trost they’d hidden in was large, but somehow seemed crowded with just Squad Levi, and the single oil lamp on the one table in the center of the room seemed to give off too much heat. He was getting cabin fever, and the frustration of being cooped up in here when he’d sworn he’d joined the Scouting Legion to spend most of his time in the open air was adding to the frustration of the situation. He still hadn’t fully digested Hange and Levi’s limited summary of what they were doing or waiting for.   _Everything_ was hard to digest, right now, and there was nothing to alleviate it, either. He’d feel better if there was a deck of cards or something.

They all froze when they heard a knock downstairs -- two rapid ones, one slow, then two more rapid ones.

“I’ll go,” Levi said and rose. He quietly left the attic.

Shortly, there was the sound of the back door opening, and low voices. The door closed again and footsteps came up the stairs. The group relaxed. Habitually, Jean went to the window and carefully looked out into the darkened streets for any unwanted followers.

“We have news from Erwin --” Levi said as he came back into the room.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” Jean turned at the girl’s voice -- Nifa, whom he’d gathered by now was a Scout that Levi, Erwin and Hange trusted immensely. He was pretty certain she was the only one who’d been carrying vital information back and forth.

“-- and another operative,” finished Levi.

As quickly as Jean wondered about Levi’s displeased tone, he saw why. Of all people, Mercedes Carello slipped into the room. She gave them all a guarded smile at their excited welcomes; when her eyes found his the smile faded but she held his gaze for a moment longer, then looked away. When she did, Jean’s shock wore off, replaced by a sudden heaviness and exasperation.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he said more loudly than he’d intended. The others looked at him and one another awkwardly but said nothing. He turned on his heel and went back to watching the window, leaning against its frame with his arms crossed. _This can’t be right! Why is_ she _here, of all people?_ She was like a recurring nightmare at this point but at the same time, he was suddenly very conscious of her hair in his pocket and the suspicions about her he’d leveled at Erwin.

“Well they’re certainly all happy to see you,” Hange said. “Erwin mentioned you. I’m Hange Zoe.” Jean reluctantly watched as Hange honed in on Mercedes and offered a hand, which Mercedes took.

“An honor,” she replied.

 _I wasn't supposed to see her again,_ Jean thought as their conversation carried on. He'd grown accustomed to confining her to a briefly-visited memory, to reducing her to a name and the label of 'the girl Marco liked'. For whatever reason she was here, it was making things complicated again. Things were already bad enough without introducing her into it. _She shouldn’t be here. This wasn’t her choice._

“Let’s be perfectly clear, Carello,” Levi interrupted, which caught Jean’s attention again. “I do not approve of your involvement, whatever it may turn out to be. You are Garrison; you will aid in whatever way you have been instructed and then you will leave, nothing more. Understood?”

Mercedes was frowning at him. Jean was fairly certain she wanted to say something else but she acknowledged, “Sir.” She paused, and then said, “It’s only that I am not yet clear why I am here tonight. My involvement otherwise, you’ll be glad to know, is limited.”

“If we could focus,” Nifa suggested gently. “Erwin’s orders are here.” She procured a piece of folded paper and held it out to Levi and Hange.

Levi took it, and the group gathered around the light to read. Jean looked in front of him, over Hange’s hunched shoulders, to watch Mercedes lingering in the umber shadows. _That’s where you belong,_ he thought.  


* * *

  
Once Mercedes realized Erwin’s orders to the Special Operations Squad were no different than what he’d told her earlier that day -- surprising as it was that she’d known before them -- she retreated into one corner of the room and waited to become relevant again.

 _What’s the point of me being here?_ she thought. _There’s no further information here. I could just leave..._

When Levi and Hange began to talk back and forth, Nifa distanced herself from the group and came to join her, fishing in her pocket. She procured another folded piece of paper. “For you,” she said. “Erwin told me to wait until you got here.”

Mercedes frowned and took it. The script that met her eyes was elegant, but the message was short:

 

_If you have come to this point, then that is all I need to know in order to trust you one step further. If you will take one step more, then your next objective is to go with Hange. We will see what you can do._

  
_E._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Note from the Author: Thank you for the patience with updates! This past month has been rather stressful. Also, I have taken a few liberties with the timing of certain events in the manga - please don't come for my firstborn!


	16. Governing Force

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Note from the Author: This chapter somewhat paraphrases Chapters 56 & 57 of the manga, with a few minor changes and assumptions to suit my needs. Any dialogue or plot that originally appears in the manga I make no claim to be my own.

**Chapter 15**

_Summer, Year 850_

 

It was late into the night -- or very early in the morning; she couldn’t be quite sure -- when Mercedes was woken from a light doze by a loud crash upstairs, followed by low conversation. She looked at Mikasa, Sasha and Historia, whom she was sharing a room with. Judging by how no one else seemed alarmed by the noise, she took it as normal or an accident.

Mere minutes later, Hange came downstairs and opened their door, waving at Mercedes,  “It’s time for you and I to go. I have something to report to Erwin immediately.” Mercedes could see blood on the cuff of her butter-yellow shirt.

Mercedes had mixed feelings about the squad leader -- on the one hand, she seemed a little off-kilter and exhausting, but on the other, Mercedes knew she had more information in her little finger than half the upper echelon had put together. She was drawn to the latter like a moth to a flame, especially under the circumstances, and so she hurried to get her gear on.

Mercedes had barely stepped outside where their horses were tied to the fence and Hange was already speaking again. “We ride for Stohess. The others will follow in an hour to keep to schedule. Sorry to wake you so suddenly.”

“No trouble.” Having not known when she was going to leave, Mercedes had kept Sabine saddled; she checked all was secure before clambering up. As she waited for Hange she wiped the tiredness from her eyes and shivered it out of her muscles, looking up at the sky. There was barely enough light to see by and she wasn’t looking forward to the ride ahead. “Must be urgent,” she remarked.

“A dream, actually,” Hange remarked back and pulled herself into the saddle. They walked the horses out from behind the house. “More importantly -- I’m sure it doesn’t need to be said but in case it does: you don’t know where you’ve been tonight, okay? If your role becomes necessary, this should not be one of the places you should use in the escape.”

“Understood.” They pulled up their hoods.

“Once we get to Stohess, your task is to shadow Erwin while the rest of us are on other tasks. Hopefully you’ll be able to get a bit more sleep before things heat up. Shadowing him is the easiest way for you to keep your finger on the pulse regarding when you need to make your move.”

They were on the sleeping street, now, and though they took the horses at a steady trot their hooves seemed inordinately loud on the cobbles with no other sound to dampen them.

Mercedes wasn’t so positive that she’d get more sleep. Things were likely to start rolling downhill faster and faster once dawn broke, and she still wasn’t fully clear what she was doing -- although it seemed ignorant of her now, she had thought she’d have more time to digest each stage of her involvement and prepare for the next. She wondered if Hange knew exactly what her move was meant to be. “Sir, has there been any guidance on how I’m to…” she wasn’t sure how to articulate it just yet or if she should.

“We trust your judgement and your resourcefulness,” Hange said. A click of her tongue and her horse’s pace picked up, drawing her ahead.

Mercedes didn’t feel like she could ask again. She was almost embarrassed by how childish her question had been, but at the same time, the lack of true concrete information was beginning to wear on her. She urged Sabine forward and leant into the ride ahead. _What choice do I have?_  


* * *

  
The ride was too quick for conversation. Admittedly, Mercedes was too distracted to quiz Hange like she thought she would if ever she met her; regret for her treatment of Fhalz had settled deep inside her ribcage and more than that, she had to fight off the nagging, unfamiliar sensation that she’d bitten off more than she could chew. She remembered the harrowed-looking faces of Squad Levi in that crappy little attic, and understood now.

_They’ve been living outside Wall Rose for a while, and now this? This isn’t what any of us signed up for._

She remembered, too, how Jean had reacted to her arrival. She’d thought of him now and again ever since she’d last seen him at the disbanding ceremony, just as she had with the others. To hear him upset by her involvement in this, though -- she couldn’t regard him in the same light as the others after that. It brought back how he’d told her about Marco, how she’d felt strangely close to him when they’d stood on opposite sides of the pyre, how he’d stopped her when she was taking the knife to her hair.

_He doesn’t want me around and yet, he did those things. And here we are -- I never thought I’d see them -- him -- again. Who ever thought he’d be a sign, some kind of governing force in my fate?_

Julia had never been able to grasp the point of it, but ever since Mercedes was a child she’d had a tendency -- inherited from her mother, supposedly -- to try to read greater meanings into her surroundings. Julia preferred the physical, quantifiable world and had poured much energy into getting Mercedes to view things and make decisions in the same way. To an extent she had succeeded and Mercedes’ preference toward intuition had been pushed aside.

_But now...if there is no concrete information on which to make my judgements, then I have no choice but to go by instinct. There’s nothing to observe, nothing to calculate, nothing to conclude. By all rights Jean and the others should be dead -- I should be dead, if what Erwin said was true. I can’t find it a coincidence that my road has aligned with theirs tonight. Surely that marks a turning of the tables?_

She’d never been to Stohess before, and Wall Sina that contained it rose like a cliff of gold in front of them in the breaking morning. They altered their course over the meadow to curve toward the gate and, once closer, slowed from a gallop to a trot.

“You’re my understudy, if anyone asks!” Hange shouted to her. Mercedes nodded. They pulled up their hoods.

No one asked. Mercedes was surprised by the lack of concern shown to them by the gatekeepers, who barely gave them a second glance. Nonetheless, this close to the stage on which their gamble would be played made her jaw clench and her observational skills go into overdrive. Instead of admiring or even envying her surroundings, she was too busy taking in as much tactical information as she could -- roads, rooftops, significant buildings to serve as landmarks, passing patrols, rises and dips in the land -- anything potentially useful. She did her best to memorize their route as she followed Hange without question.

At last they reached one of many nondescript trim and tidy buildings on a side street, and dismounted. They tied the horses up in the alley between the two buildings, which Mercedes had trouble determining whether they were homes or offices. They entered by a side door. Hange immediately raced forward through the dim halls, having found some reserve of energy, and Mercedes trailed at a jog. The squad leader’s shouting for Erwin caught the attention of another tall Scout, who poked his head out of a door and wiped at his eyes. Hange headed upstairs.

“Erwin, are you here?” Hange shouted.

 _You’re not even sure if he’s here?_ Mercedes thought to herself as she pushed her hood back.

Hange drew away to a room at the end of the hall -- she slammed the door open and proclaimed, “There you are!”

Mercedes stopped at the doorway; through Hange’s sweeping arms she glimpsed Erwin turning in front of the window full of morning sun, fastening the last button on his shirt with one hand -- it took him several moments before he managed it and Mercedes wondered how long it’d taken him for the rest. She felt an odd spurn of pity, and it was only Hange’s insistent voice that drew her out of the oddly humanizing moment.

“We have to reconsider our previous plans,” Hange said.

Erwin glanced at Mercedes only for a second and said nothing, and drew the curtains behind him. He returned his attention to his squad leader and began pouring water into two glasses as Hange continued in her preamble; Mercedes’ hands shot out as, somehow, Hange collapsed on the floor. Mercedes sighed and threw her hands up -- this was not going how she imagined and she was rapidly losing patience.

Erwin, however, said, “Let’s hear your conclusions first. Why do we have to reconsider?” and handed her one of the glasses of water.

“Reiss,” Hange began with a gulp from the glass. “Wants to eat Eren.”

Mercedes squinted, looked over her shoulder into the hall a couple of times. No one else, not even the awakened soldier from before. She came fully into the room and closed the door behind her; despite not being certain whether she was supposed to hear what was about to be discussed, they weren’t dismissing her and so she stayed for lack of any other order, and listened with growing confusion and revulsion to Hange’s explanation.

By the time Hange was done both she and Erwin were sitting at the small table behind his desk, and Mercedes was summarizing to herself -- in an effort to clamp down on the revulsion and digest it quickly -- that apparently, the Titans’ hunger for humans was all in an effort to by chance consume a shifter in an effort to gain the ability to become human again, and that the ability Eren Jaeger possessed -- which Hange called ‘the Coordinate’ -- could be transferred in a similar manner. Which of course, meant that risking him in the hands of someone as significant as Rod Reiss wasn’t such a good idea after all. If a vessel’s contents could be passed to another vessel, the vessel was no longer as important as once thought. The fact that Erwin supported Hange’s theories without hesitation -- and indeed, with further evidence involving the importance of bloodlines according to the Wallists -- surprised Mercedes.

“...why is she still mysteriously considered someone with a right to the throne, or considered by the monarchy to have as much value as Eren?” Erwin was saying.

Hange paused. “Good point. That is rather strange.” Another thoughtful pause. “If we figured that out, could we have the answer to all the riddles…” she murmured to herself.

In the quiet that followed, Erwin surprised Mercedes further by turning to her and asking, “Does this give our cause more credence, in your eyes?”

She wasn’t sure how to answer, and didn’t give him any illusions by disguising her frown. What did he really expect her to say? She was no one. It didn’t matter what she thought.

Erwin gave her a small, almost consolatory smile. “I’m glad you’re here, though I’m under no illusions that it means you’re agreeing to the rest of it -- I don’t think you’ll know for certain --”

_Until it’s time to act._

“-- until it’s time to act -- but, I have faith.”

Mercedes’ chin rose a fraction in disbelief. “Do you?”

The door to the study burst open. The soldier from the hall exclaimed, “Commander Erwin!” The three of them turned to him; Mercedes stepped out of his eyeline. “The First Brigade of the Military Police is outside and demanding to speak with you -- they’re claiming there’s suspicion of murder among our ranks.”

“Murder?” Hange stood.

Erwin frowned and, to Mercedes’ guessing, did not seem surprised -- rather, resigned. He grabbed his jacket, slipping into it. “Hange, you must leave.”

“What? What are you planning to do? What about Levi’s squad?” Hange asked.

“Levi will handle things on his own; same to you -- operate on your own instincts. Meanwhile, I have to address this situation. When the enemy becomes aggressive, we cannot act exactly as planned; all of you need to be ready for unexpected changes.” He straightened his collar. “Also -- the next Commander will be Hange Zoe.” A small smirk as he turned to leave the room, “You. I leave the Scouting Legion in your care.” He followed the soldier into the hall.

“Erwin,” Hange called, “What about the negotiations with Pixis?”

“They fell through,” he called back. “Don’t expect any backup from them.”

Mercedes felt her heartrate pick up speed again. With her only clear immediate order being to shadow Erwin she gave a last uncertain glance at Hange, who was standing stunned in the middle of the study, and hurried into the hall after him. Once she was behind him, the only thing that came immediately to her tongue was, “Sir, your tie…”

“They know who I am,” he said as they went down the stairs. They were nearly at the front door of the headquarters when Erwin seemed to realize who had spoken and turned on his heel, stopping the soldier from opening the door any wider. He gave Mercedes a hard look, “No. You have to go unseen. Shadow me, yes, as much as you need to get enough information to make your judgement, but you must come without warning. Understand?”

“Yes Sir,” she replied automatically, but was surprised by the insistence. His logic made sense, of course, but why did there seem to be some other importance to her ‘coming without warning’?

He nodded at her and she stepped out of view of the open door as Erwin and the soldier vanished through it, closing it behind them.

 _Come on, keep moving,_ she told herself.

She immediately retraced her steps to the side door she and Hange had arrived through and darted past their horses down the alley to the back of the headquarters, running along it until she reached the opposite side of the building. Down the alley again, at the mouth of which she could see a small crowd of townsfolk and Military Police gathered in the middle of the street, hear their muttering and a woman’s sobbing.

Mercedes checked behind her and then crept low and slow to the end of the alley, where she concealed herself behind a stack of chicken cages. When the crowd parted for Erwin to pass through, she saw two bodies on stretchers on the ground; the captain of the First Brigade of the Military Police began quizzing Erwin about them -- she heard the name Reeves, but the rest was too low for her to hear.

 _That’s not good,_ she thought. _Wasn’t the Reeves Company supposed to help the Legion lure out Rod Reiss? If that’s them on the ground...what happened to Eren and Historia?_

When Erwin knelt next to the body with the dark jacket, Mercedes heard the woman beside him shout, “Don’t come any closer to my husband, you bastard!” and Erwin began speaking quietly. After a few moments of this, a second woman yelled, “What are you insinuating? That he deserved to be killed?”

 _What the hell? What’s going on?_ Mercedes strained to hear Erwin’s reply, but only caught a word hear and there through the crowd. She wanted to get closer, but remembered the commander’s insistence that she remain hidden. When Erwin rose and was escorted to a carriage, however, she seriously began to wonder if his love of secrecy was worth it; she stood, darted out of the alley into a vendor’s stall in front of the building next door, sticking to the canopy’s shadows behind the counter as she tried to get closer to the carriage. It was already lurching to life and driving away before she could get close. She tucked down the next alley and tried to figure out what to do; she watched the crowd disperse slowly and the members of the First Brigade that were left begin to stroll after the carriage, tucking rifle straps onto their shoulders.

As they passed, she heard, “It’ll be better once the Scouting Legion’s under control.”

“Once they’re all rounded up, the people will be calmer.”

“Not to mention they let those Titans fight in here -- they’re a menace. And what are they doing now, playing around with that Titan kid? It’s ridiculous. They should all have been arrested and put out of commission a long time ago. Crazy fucks.”

“Just gotta find the rest of them, now…”

Mercedes let them go. She looked around her feet, at the pristinely-laid cobbles, scraps of straw, a puddle halfway-dried that still held a sliver of sky. _Do I go back to Hange? Try to follow that carriage? If it’s true and the Military Police are rounding up the Scouting Legion, doesn’t that mean that Erwin’s plan has been scuppered already? If they find out I was here, they might arrest me too. They’re probably emptying out HQ right now -- I need to get Sabine._

She slipped away. Tiredness was giving her a headache and her empty stomach was cramping while adrenaline made her jaw clench. It was hard to think, but through the fog Erwin’s words came back to her: _“This is your revolution as well as ours, Mercedes.”, “You must go unseen...come without warning.”,_ and _“I have faith.”_

_This is ridiculous -- I should never have been involved. It’s too much. What was he thinking? I need to go back to Karanese where I belong._


	17. Rico

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience with updates! (If anyone's still reading this, that is!)

**Chapter 16**   
Summer, Year 850

 

Mercedes stopped on the last side street from the Stohess gate, lingering in the shadows. The gate she and Hange had so easily passed through earlier was now encrusted with guards on high alert, their rifles held across their bodies rather than hanging on shoulders. She was grateful for her coat covering her uniform jacket but anything more than a casual glance was spell trouble -- she couldn’t stay here long.

_ But I can’t get out. Not right now. Not as I am. Shit. _

The headquarters had been little more than a husk when she’d got back to it, and Hange’s horse was gone. No more clues left for her. She was on her own and it felt like enemy territory, even if she wasn’t so sure it was. If she hadn’t known better it would have looked planned, to push her into going along with Erwin’s plan.

_ What choice do I have but to go forward?  _ She frowned, and turned Sabine away.  _ ‘Go unseen’, _ she repeated. _ I need to lie low for at least a few hours until the initial wave dies down, then see about better disguising myself. _

Mercedes decided that hunger and tiredness were as much the enemy as anything else, and decided to risk checking in to a tavern. After filling her belly as quickly as she could she retreated to the tiny room she’d rented under a false name, and did pushups and situps to work out the majority of the anxious energy clogging her senses. She jammed the back of the chair under the door handle. It still took longer than normal to fall asleep; every so often a raucous shout from the tavern below or in the street had her eyes shooting open. But eventually exhaustion won out. She slept with her clothes and gear on.

 

* * *

 

A knock at the door sprang her free from a nightmare. It was dark outside. A crick in her neck made her grimace but she got to her feet carefully. “Yes?” she called half-cheerily.

“Carello are you in there?”

She didn’t recognize the voice -- it was too quiet. “There’s no one here by that name, sorry.” A blade was slowly drawn, and she stepped to one side in case a shot came through the door.

“Mercedes it’s Rico.”

Mercedes calmed herself, recognized the voice. She put away her blade.

“I’m alone.”

_ Shit.  _ Nonetheless Mercedes had no choice but to take the chair away. She steeled herself for whatever reason her superior was here, and opened the door. Rico was indeed alone and gave her a cursory glance as she slipped inside without an invitation. She was in plainclothes, and there was something under her arm. Mercedes closed the door. “How did you find me?”

“I found your horse,” Rico said. She plopped the soft package she carried on the bed. “She’s fairly distinctive.”

Mercedes waited. What was this about? It was quite an effort for Rico to come all the way out here and go through the trouble of finding her, too, and to do so in plainclothes suggested something...off. She noted that her mentor’s face was somewhat sad among its usual severity. There was a slight yellow gleam on her glasses from the streetlight coming through the little window. 

“I...had an unusual communication today,” Rico said. She pulled a small quarterfold out of her breast pocket, but did not open it or hand it to her. Her voice was slow.“It asked me to bring you this, along with instructions. It even told me that you’d be here, in Stohess. Naturally I went to Pixis, who told me about your...enhanced movements.” She added in a whisper, “And your potential visit to Mitras.”

Horses clattered by in the street, and they both turned their attention to it until it faded away. Mercedes locked eyes with her, and her pulse quickened. She wondered, though, what Rico's perspective would be. The slightly older woman had been with the Garrison for a long time and if it was to be weakened in such a way by Mercedes' covert operations, she couldn't imagine it being received well. She was surprised Rico had been informed at all for that very reason. And what was this about Mitras? The King was there, yes, so did Pixis tell her about the potential assassination? 

“I have to know – you can tell me – is this something you're a part of willingly?” Rico asked. The knuckles of the hand that gripped the note were white.

Mercedes saw no point in lying. “Yes, but I haven’t agreed to anything more than to help the Scouts escape or to testify if needs be,” she said equally quietly, though really ‘agreed’ was a loose term nowadays, it seemed. She was also working on the assumption that Rico knew that the Scouts were here, too.

“I see.” Rico looked down at the note, and then turned her head ever so slightly to look at her out of the corner of her eye, which was more gold than gray. “I cannot protect you if you proceed with Erwin’s plan. You know this, right?” Her face was unusually sympathetic. At Mercedes’ nod she shifted feet and looked down at the floor; her arm dropped to her side. “Unfortunately I’ve grown to like you. It's not my place to say if this is a wise move for you to make – I suppose at the end of the day we all have our own destinies to fulfil even if the backdrop we do so on is one of war and the potential for the extinction of our species.”

Mercedes took a step forward. “I'm not doing this to go against the Garrison too,” she felt compelled to point out. “And I'm not doing it for Erwin or the Scouting Legion, either. I'm doing it for our species.” She thought back to Erwin's words concerning her conviction to finding clarity for herself. “And if it so happens that my own destiny, as you call it, is fulfilled in the meantime, then that's a happy coincidence.”

Rico walked to the window, away from her. Her hands came to rest behind her back. “Part of me wonders, nowadays, whether humanity's already doomed. Whether that's true or not, make your decision for you. Then you'll never be wrong.”

Mercedes debated what to say. She'd never had this kind of conversation with Rico before and it revealed how little she knew about her. It almost made her sad to have her involved – to whatever extent that might be.

Rico looked over her shoulder at her. “Come here.”

Mercedes closed even the very short distance between them and stood beside Rico, her back to the window so she could see the rest of the room, however unlikely it was that anyone would come in. She kept her expression neutral even though she dreaded what she'd hear.

“Listen to me carefully,” Rico began, her voice barely above a murmur. The note rose into view again; Rico turned it in her fingers. “Your movements have been endorsed by the highest authority – Zackly. I learned that much. I don't think it's too far of a guess, from what you've told me of your military history, that his knowledge of if not involvement with it extends further back than this coup. This note and the package suggest that, too.”

Mercedes was rooted to the spot in shock. Commander-in-Chief Zackly? Why?

“I think you're smart enough to know that half the time, interests of that nature aren't a compliment,” Rico continued. “But I also think I know you well enough to deduce that it's not a criminal past or anything like that that's causing it. I don't know if you know why you're getting special treatment –”

“I really don't,” Mercedes whispered back, shaking her head a little.

“– but believe me when I tell you that you need to be very careful. These authority figures that seem so intent on using you – Zackly, Erwin, even Pixis – are the type that can set aside any humanity they have in the interests of the grander picture. As easily as they can grant you freedom, they can snuff you out. You are a wildcard to them. They've clearly seen something useful in you but remember that it's just that – a usefulness. As soon as they feel you aren't any longer…”

“Then I'll be thrown to the wolves,” Mercedes finished for her. Her mouth remained parted. Of course it'd occurred to her that she couldn't count on her good fortune being long-lived. Fhalz’s suggestion that Erwin was messing with her head rang dully in her ear.

There were a few moments of contemplative quiet. Mercedes hadn't heard anything she didn't ultimately suspect – aside from the Commander-in-Chief's knowledge let alone interest in her – but to hear it from Rico brought it home in a way even Fhalz's speculations hadn't. It also made her immensely appreciate the other woman and realize that Rico was more invested in her well-being than she'd previously thought.

Rico crossed her arms and leaned against the windowsill. Her volume went back to a normal level but its tone was still dispirited, “I grew up in Trost – I don't know if I told you that. When I was young it was never my intention to join the military, but I did it to please my family. We'd never been high-achievers, never stood out, never accomplished much; my parents saw me as a way to change that.”

Mercedes' brow furrowed. It was hard to imagine Rico as being anything but the Elite Squad Leader.

“It was tough to start with, but they kept pushing me. I was noticed, I did well, and special attention was my reward. Ultimately the pattern continued until I ended up on the Elite Squad. My reward for that was to lose that Squad.” There was a quaver in her voice, though yet again briefly. She then heaved a great breath and said, “I'm telling you this because…well, be careful what you invest, and where and why, because you never know what you'll lose as a result. Not all noble efforts are rewarded accordingly.”

“I understand,” was all Mercedes could think to say.

Rico handed her the note and then walked away. She called back, “Get some rest. Who knows when you'll get the chance again.”

“Rico,” Mercedes said. The other woman paused at the door. “It’ll work out. I'm sure of it.”

Rico opened the door. “I hope you're right, rookie.” She closed it behind her, and her footsteps died away.

Mercedes took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then exhaled loudly. She wedged the chair back under the door handle and sat on the bed to turn her attention to the note and the package. To see better, she finally lit the lamp on the little bedside table. Her eyes were burning from tiredness but this definitely wasn’t going to wait.

The paper was thick and fine, but was not, itself, sealed. At the top was a brief note in blue ink --  _ Mitras library. Dress like a scholar, unarmed. Show them this. _ \-- in handwriting she didn’t recognize. There was then a typed sentence followed by an embossed seal. The handwriting and seal were, from what Rico said, presumably Zackly’s.

“‘Specialist Research Department. Access to Exhibit Seven and Article 20A, unguided -- one hour.’,” she read. She peered at the seal and determined it to be a laurel wreath surrounding a shield with a simple, equal-armed cross in the center.  _ Why the fuck would the Commander-in-Chief of the entire fucking military want me to go to a library if he’s really endorsing my potential assassination of the King? And unarmed?  _

Mercedes refolded the note and tucked it in her boot. She brought the paper-wrapped package into her lap and untied the twine. Wrapped absurdly in tissue like some sort of precious item was, when she lifted it by the shoulders, a plum-colored dress that she guessed would reach her shins. Curious despite herself, she stood, and after holding it up to herself assessed it would likely fit very well. 

_ That’s...odd. What the shit.  _ Her brain muddled over how that was possible, before she decided to dedicate it to tomorrow. 

She hastily wrapped it back up and stowed it under the bed. After conceding to remove her gear and boots to try to sleep properly, however, she felt its presence underneath her like a hot coal and held onto her bangle for reassurance, no matter how much it made her position feel like that of a corpse. She wondered about Erwin and Hange. She wondered about Rico making her way home in the dark. She wondered about Squad Levi. She wondered about Jean. Perhaps Jean most of all -- she was too exhausted to try to wrangle that and dedicate it to tomorrow.

 

* * *

 

Their horses flowed as one over the barely-there road in the dark, their hooves thundering. Jean leaned forward into the wind. Around him, Armin, Mikasa, Connie, and Sasha had stern, tired expressions, but Levi himself was unbowed as he led them on. Jean wondered if they’d get a chance to rest when they reached Stohess, but doubted it. Instead, he consoled himself with this brief time of mental rest, even if physical rest wasn’t quite possible. No one spoke, after all.

Being half outside of his body like this made him more conscious of his basic senses -- the smell of rain far off, the wind on his face and slipping down his collar, the rhythm of the horse underneath him, the warmth and sweat between the reins and his fingers and palms. He remembered, again, that day back in training with Shadis, with the horses -- that day Mercedes had been with them. He tried to feel that same sense of joy and liberation she exhibited, that same confidence, in an effort to get some energy from it. But thoughts of her made him feel heavier rather than lighter.

_ Where are you? Where did he send you?  _

Not knowing where she was felt like a tactical misstep. It made him nervous. After all, she could reappear as unexpectedly as she had that night in the attic. He wouldn’t be prepared for her. He wanted to keep an eye on her -- just in case. Wanted to determine what she was thinking, what she would do. What she wanted. She was involved in this mess some kind of way, after all, and if Captain Levi knew how he didn’t share it. That in itself was alarming. He didn’t want her to be involved and it was with an awful sinking feeling that he admitted it wasn’t out of jealousy or annoyance. Rather, there was an awful feeling in the pit of his stomach that had nothing to do with hunger or mission jitters.

Jean thought again of her hair in his pocket, his musings in the chalet over whether he could influence her with it. If he dropped it in the meadow now, would he sway her course? Or was she on her way to reunite with it, to collide with him again? 

_ Whichever works, _ he supposed.


	18. A Monster's Soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Note from the Author: A disclaimer - a significant portion of this chapter is paraphrasing the events in Chapter 58, 'Gunfire'. I make no claim to this section of plot as my own - I merely came in and interpreted it from Jean's point of view and added or embellished a few details - the rights rest solely with Hajime Isayama. Same goes for the chapter title, which is taken from the proceeding Chapter 59; it just so happened to fit perfectly.

**Chapter 17**

_Summer, Year 850_

_(Two days later)_

 

Rico looked up from where she sat behind Woerman’s desk as the door opened. She was covering for him on account of him being sick for the first time in five years, and couldn’t wait to be relieved from it. A visitor was unlikely to make things better.

She was surprised to see one of the newer recruits come in -- Fhalz Lathan, if she remembered correctly. He was only a couple of inches taller than her, and were it not for the severeness of his face -- not helped by the scraping-back of the upper half of his auburn hair -- she’d think he was a little boy playing soldier. She quickly pulled up what scraps of information about him she had while he closed the door behind him and saluted.

“Squad Leader Brzenska,” he hammered his fist to his chest but his voice didn’t match his fervor.

“At ease,” she twitched a couple of fingers at him. “Lathan, right?”

“Yes Sir.”

 _Carello’s friend -- one of the only Western Division 104th survivors. Separate squads currently but unlikely to remain so for long._ She moved a ledger to one side. “What is it?”

“I’d like to request a day’s leave, Sir.” He placed his hands behind his back and raised his chin. His dark blue eyes were particularly harsh in the daylight and suggested he didn’t so much wish for leave, but demanded it.

 _An arrogant little bastard, really._ Rico’s eyebrows rose skeptically.

“My parents are ill. I’d like to check on them.”

Rico sighed to herself and very quickly connected the dots. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with your attempt, two days ago, to abandon your post and ride north with the back of your head bleeding, would it? After another soldier found you knocked out in the stables?” She watched his already-pale face grow pastier. “You may be smarter than Carello, but you’re not as good of a liar. You’re out of practice with charming people.”

Lathan looked at the floor, shifted feet. When it looked like he was going to try again, Rico spoke first.

“You are not going anywhere, Lathan.”

This seemed to release the spring. He broke form and composure, his face twisting into a sneer. “But Sir, I need to --”

Rico stood slowly and leaned on the desk, “You do not need anything. If I find you trying to go after Carello you will be court-martialed and possibly expelled. Your parents depend on the extra income from your wages, yes?” This softened him, though not by much. She decided to throw him a bone, and stood upright. “Carello is on an assignment given to her by me. There’s nothing for you to be alarmed about.”

“No she’s not,” Lathan quipped.

It was Rico’s turn to hesitate. _Carello had mentioned something to him, then? Of course she must have -- she must have knocked him out when he tried to stop her. That was stupid of me._ “It’s nonetheless something I’m aware of. Do you think I’d let her go if I believed it was dangerous? Or that anyone of the upper echelons would turn a blind eye to her just,” she waved a hand, “leaving, like she did?”

Oddly, this seemed to alarm him further. “If...if you know -- if anyone higher than you really knows -- then you just let her go. Not dangerous? Nothing to be alarmed about?” his voice was rising. “Aside from the killing field of the breach zone back at Trost that almost all my division died in I can’t think of any position more dangerous! She might have to --”

Rico slammed her fist on the desk. “Lathan,” she growled. Only once she was sure he wasn’t about to speak again did she continue. “Watch your words.” She held his gaze.

At last he seemed to understand. He straightened. “Sir.”

She sat back down and sighed, crossed her legs. She glanced out of the window and wondered if Mercedes had slept at all, what she was doing. What she had decided. She remembered her words to the younger woman, about the things -- and people -- you choose to risk. “You’re good friends, aren’t you?”

“I think so,” Lathan grumbled.

She passed him a sympathetic smile. “You are. So you know that nothing is set in stone yet, for her. You trust her judgement, right?”

“Most of the time.” He looked out of the window, too, and the light glinted off his glasses.

Rico watched him a moment longer. It was obvious that she couldn’t trust him to simply listen to her and not go anywhere. As well as a risk to himself, that could be a risk to Mercedes -- not to mention to have to be another soldier’s absence she’d have to cover for. “I’d like you to take her place for now, and shadow me until she gets back.”

“You mean stay close so you can keep an eye on me.”

“You can call it that, if you’d rather not take the compliment on your aptitude.”

“Not if I’m second choice.”

“Here I was thinking you were smart enough to recognize a compromise.”

Lathan looked at her, frowning.

“You’re likelier to be kept informed if you’re with me, aren’t you?” Rico tipped her head to one side.

 

* * *

 

“They'll likely hold the trial as quickly as possible," said Armin. "Maybe even by tomorrow morning. I don't think they want the Survey Corps to be around any longer than necessary, now they know we're on to them." To continue their undercover walk he drew ahead again with the cart, leaving Jean, Mikasa, Connie and Sasha behind on horseback along with the spares.

 _With Erwin now in custody, what does that mean Mercedes will do? Does she know?_ Jean reflected. His head bowed to keep his troubled expression from the others; the hat he'd donned to help disguise him while they were in Stohess helped. Thankfully their own mission was too engrossing for them to give any worry to him.

According to plan, horses were exchanged and their formerly split squad had regrouped. A few steps ahead trundled the casket wagon which they were convinced held Eren and Historia, but now the sound of its wheels over the pristine cobbles contended with the sound of distant gunfire. The group looked behind them in worry in the direction of the gate. Where were Captain Levi and the others?

"The gunfire is getting closer," Sasha warned. "I don't understand. They can't fire guns and chase us using their gear at the same time, right?" her voice became reedy and as she turned her head to the side, her heavy breathing disturbed the hood she'd pulled over her head. Jean, however, knew better than to mistake her adrenaline kicking in for fear.

He glanced over at Mikasa, whose eyes were trained desperately on the wagon that was quickly disappearing out of sight. If they lingered they may lose it. "Keep calm," Jean said, though he wasn't so sure himself. "The Military Police shouldn't be able to keep up with the Captain, or anyone using their gear. The gunfire suggests they're on foot. We should stay focused on the wagon." He rapidly began to consider if they should split up again, if only briefly.

Suddenly they spotted Captain Levi, in only his long-sleeved white shirt, casting lines and soaring through the Stohess gate. He was followed by others using gear except…except they appeared to be wielding guns. Nifa was nowhere to be seen.

Jean squinted through his stupor. _Shit._ They were indeed firing both lines and bullets.

"How is that possible?" he heard Connie exclaim.

The casket wagon was momentarily forgotten as within moments, Levi and his four pursuers were passing overhead. Another few seconds and even through the hail of bullets, Levi had swung in for the kill. One pursuer was cut cleanly in half; his blood pattered on the roof eaves nearby. Somewhere, children had begun to shout in surprise.

Levi passed overhead again and seemed to spot them. He made a gesture Jean couldn't quite make out.

"It's a signal!" Connie said.

"Let's go to the left," Mikasa elaborated.

They caught up with Armin and their cart; the hooded blond was glancing behind him anxiously and as if on cue, Levi landed in the cart bed with a loud thud of footsteps. The cart horses skittered a little but Armin soon reined them in. The group picked up speed and civilians cried out and threw themselves out of the way. Levi didn't stow his blades and a gash on his head was bleeding – they both glistened in the sun. The group rode closer to hear his words.

"…stop following the casket wagon," he was ordering Armin. "We'll have to leave Historia and Eren for now. Our movements have been seen through." He looked at the others. "Nifa and the others that came with me were killed – we've been lured out in the hopes they can kill all that remains of the Survey Corps here and now. It's a trap." He swiped blood from his brow irritably and changed position, glancing around for the other three Military Police that had vanished – for now.

Jean's first thought went to Mercedes. If they'd been led into a trap, then by default so would she. If they'd seen through Squad Levi's plan, then surely it wouldn't take them long to trace her? Wherever she was. If they all died here, she wouldn't be any the wiser. She'd have no idea what was lying in wait for her. She'd be gunned down in the streets…

"Jean –"

Jean was brought back to attention by Levi's voice.

"– return fire from here."

"Understood," he agreed and tried to keep his frantic brain where it belonged. He didn't waste any time in bringing his horse alongside the cart, swinging a leg over, and dismounting. He wasn't as accomplished a rider as Sasha or Mercedes and so the cart would provide an easier shot. His horse along with the others were guided by Sasha and Connie, and the herd dropped back. Likewise, he watched as Mikasa and Levi took to the air to cover their escape.

As they rounded a bend in the road, several more figures with gear that Jean could only assume were Military Police sprung into view on the right. They sailed over the rooftops and joined a second wave of others that had risen directly behind – as they descended Levi and Mikasa rose to meet them. Jean readied his rifle and took up position near to Armin. He tried to remember anything Mercedes or Marco had said when they were in rifle training. More bullets fired; more people sliced to ribbons.

Jean watched the body fall away from Levi's expert strike. "Is this what we have to do, now?" he asked himself through gritted teeth. "Human killing human? This isn't how it's supposed to be." He sighted along his rifle.

The movement made him think of Mercedes, which then made him think of her bringing the dinnerknife to her head to cut her hair, the glazed look to her eyes that was simultaneously dead and so alive, like she could see something he couldn’t -- some monster that rivaled Titans and was much, much closer to home. Suddenly he understood her urge to run. Jean felt his hands shaking and not from the ride. It had dawned on him. _Erwin must have suspected this could happen – that this ugliness would rear its head and we'd succumb to it. That's why he chose to involve Mercedes – she'd feel compelled to end it. But end it how? Is she some kind of contingency plan if we fall to pieces? But if she comes here…whether she succeeds or fails, she's going to be killed. I've got to stop this – stop her. But how?_

The dozen figures drew closer and closer to their small convoy and practically surrounded them. Bullets ricocheted off the street and pummeled into wood. The rattle of the cart wheels was deafening. Jean returned a couple of shots and was startled by the sound of Armin crying out in horror. He turned, saw the female soldier bearing down on his friend with a gun, and then Mikasa fell on her with a heavy swoop and felled her with a kick to the neck before sailing away. The soldier collapsed into the bed of the cart behind Armin.

Jean had his rifle trained on her in an instant. "Don't move!" he shouted as he noticed her twitch.

The young woman looked up and over her shoulder at him, blood streaming from her nose. She had dark, bright eyes that reminded him of Mercedes'. She looked familiar. His finger applied more pressure to the trigger but he couldn't bring himself to pull it, even though he knew he should.

_Am I one of the monsters Mercedes saw?_

"Jean?" Armin prompted incredulously.

Though Jean repeated his earlier command, the soldier pushed herself into a crouch and with a violent, abrupt swing, knocked his rifle from his hand. The cart took another sharp turn and unbalanced him – he fell against the back of the cart and stared up the barrel of her gun into the soldier's face.

She hesitated. Her expression was one of reluctance.

_Is this woman a monster, either?_

Then he saw the minute tense and rise of her hand as she prepared to fire –

Her skull was exploded by a bullet and as she fell out of the cart, her gun merely tipped the hat from Jean's head. In horrified gratitude he looked at Armin, who was still holding out the pistol. He seemed momentarily appalled at what he'd done, but that soon changed into anger and determination. He turned back to the road. "We're close to escaping!" he yelled.

 

* * *

 

Later that night, outside the run-down shack of a building in the small forest in which they'd hidden, Jean took over Mikasa's watch. The low voices of the others died away as he pulled the door closed behind him. Above him, just visible through the trees, was the bright coin of a rising gibbous moon on the crumpled navy cloth of a sky. An owl had begun to hoot and distantly, there was the trickle of a brook.

Jean reflected on Captain Levi's earlier words, and what had happened during the escape. He'd allowed himself to be distracted and it had nearly cost him his life – not to mention that Armin now had blood on his hands as a result. They all did, granted – who knows how many Military Police soldiers, who were just following orders, had been killed? – but Jean had always hoped that out of all of them, Armin would be spared from becoming a criminal.

The door creaked open again. "Jean? You all right?"

Jean glanced over his shoulder at Armin. "Yeah," he gave a half-hearted smile. "Better now. You?"

"I guess." He came outside and shut the door, wandered over to join Jean in the small clearing between the building and the forest. "Can I ask you something?"

"Go ahead."

"Before I do, I want you to know it's not an accusation – I don't blame you for anything – I –"

"Just ask, Armin," Jean laughed to himself.

Armin began slowly, "It's not like you to be distracted like that. What happened?"

After a pause, Jean said, "A couple of things." He debated how much to tell Armin about his worries for Mercedes. "I recognized that soldier. The one you…saved me from."

The pair turned and began to walk one leg of the perimeter. The moonlight cast shadows of the trees onto their bodies and the path in front of them.

"You did?" Armin asked sadly.

"Yeah. It took me a while, but I finally remembered where I'd seen her before. It was at our Disbanding Ceremony – she was with Mercedes as part of the Western Division."

"Really?"

"If she was Military Police, that'd make her the Tenth that Mercedes had referred to back then, since their Sixth was the guy that was with her. None of their other ranking classmen survived Trost." Jean's head bowed. "And now it's just the two of them."

There was a long pause, in which they turned the corner to patrol the back of the building. Some small creature scampered out of the way, rustling leaves underfoot as it did so.

"Do we know what her name was?" Armin asked.

Jean frowned. "No. Maybe Mercedes remembers." He glanced up at the moon. "She probably remembers."

 

* * *

 

_(Early the next morning)_

 

It was dark. Completely and utterly dark. When would they come to fetch him, take him to the throne room? It must be soon – they'd stopped bringing him water. He'd been in this blackness for the past day and in a way, it was worse than the beatings. It made the real cell dissolve and replaced it with one of his own making. Every thought became a bar, every possibility he'd ever contemplated a link in the chains of his shackles. Reason and strategy and purpose had become mere words on his father's chalkboard once again.

_ Humanity was born in the dark – will it return there, too? What is it we've been fighting all along? _ Erwin thought.  _ No, stop this. You must be clear in your mission. You cannot falter now. _

The door opened and the weak light from the outer hall spread across the floor down the short line of cells. But instead of the sound of keys, Erwin only heard a single pair of slow footsteps. Into the light stepped the familiar silhouette of a short, broad-shouldered man in a trench coat. Just one silhouette. The door closed behind him, casting them both into darkness again.

Erwin waited. He felt like he had spent his entire life waiting, obscurely – just as he believed humanity had. Sitting in the dark, waiting to be dragged into the light, denied truth and sometimes denied even hope. Left with nothing but one's inner thoughts. Consequently he'd sometimes wondered, as he did at this very moment, if he'd had it wrong all along, and it wasn't the light that held truth or hope – rather, that it was the darkness.

"They'll come for you soon," said Commander-in-Chief Darius Zackly.

"I know," Erwin said.

After a pause, Zackly said, “Memory is a funny thing, sometimes. Have you ever tried to trace your family line back past your parents? Grandparents? It’s practically impossible for most of us here in the Walls. How are we so sure where we came from, and thus who we are?”

Strangely enough Erwin had never attempted this, but was too exhausted to admit to it or to contribute to the conversation.

“I’m sure genealogy was part of the book-ban by the monarchy. Yet sometimes...things -- and people -- slip through the cracks. For instance, I do not know the names of my grandparents, but I do know of a family story that by all rights does not make sense, given what we know of humanity’s life within the Walls: there was a fort, believed to be our own, and it was under siege; it seemed the opposing forces would grow exhausted, but right as things seemed to turn in our favor, we glimpsed a small fire floating down the river -- this small river had a channel that diverted under the fort, where our munitions were kept. We couldn’t stop it. Thus, purely by chance, the fire flowed under the fort and ignited the gunpowder, destroying practically everything. We fled.”

Erwin squinted in his direction. What was the point of telling him this tall tale? What did he expect by way of response?

Zackly shifted feet, turning to the door. “If nothing else, I learn from the mistakes of others. I wanted you to know that, for better or worse, I have set a fire on its course down the river -- the fire you sparked, in yet another little thing thought to have slipped through the cracks.” Another hesitation, and then the door opened again. Before Erwin could reply he was gone, and the darkness was back.

It took a moment for Erwin to process his cryptic statement. When he finally caught his meaning, he clenched his teeth.  _ Carello. But why? What has he done? And how does he know about her, much less that she’s involved? _


	19. Darkness

**Chapter 18**

_ Summer, Year 850 _

_ (That same morning) _

 

Mercedes had relocated to Mitras the day before, after learning that Erwin was due to go on trial at Nine AM. She’d taken the opportunity to knock herself to sleep with alcohol, which had been just enough to get her six hours with no dreams. When she'd woken the sun was barely turning the sky lavender. She had dragged herself out of bed and with a bizarre sort of reverence, made it, and then decided to wash in the communal shower. 

_ May as well be clean, _ she had mused. She remembered her grandmother often teasing her as a little girl for wanting a bath first thing in the morning only to go outside half an hour later and get covered from head to foot in dirt. The thought of her grandmother -- and the suddenly very real fear that she may never see her again, whether she went through with whatever this was or not -- made her ache.  _ You would’ve broken my leg to stop me from doing this, Julia. I’m sorry. But...King and revolution be damned, I think I have to at least find out _ why me.  _ I’m nobody. _

The water pressure and temperature was at least better than anywhere else she’d been.  _ Benefits of Wall Sina, no doubt. If this turns out to be my last scrub, shame it's not a bath, _ Mercedes thought. She hankered for the deep soaking tub at her grandmother's, with its window overlooking the field and the peace it held for her. Nonetheless she went through the motions, trying not to think about her dark errand for the day. It was surreal doing something as everyday as taking a shower and washing her hair when in an hour, maybe less, she'd be heading for the library and by this afternoon, potentially fleeing for her life. Her stomach churned.  _ Focus. You have to focus,  _ she told herself.  _ You can do this. Stop being so morbid. _

She obeyed the Commander-in-Chief’s obscure instructions and tried to look as much like a scholar -- or at least a civilian -- as she could, re-parting her hair so that it disguised her undercut and pinning it completely to her head, knowing that her hair -- her grandmother’s hair -- was fairly distinctive when loose. She put on the dress that had been sent to her -- it did indeed fit, mostly owing to its wrap-around style across the front. With no other shoes, she wore it over her boots. Zackly’s note was slipped up one of the three-quarter-length sleeves on account of the frustrating lack of pockets. Pulling on her coat, she pushed her uniform and gear under the rented bed and, as she had in Stohess, wedged the back of a chair under the door handle before leaving via the window. 

_ Mitras Library, _ she told herself as she saddled Sabine. She reminded herself of the directions she’d been given by the innkeeper.  _ This is so bizarre, _ she thought. There wasn’t much choice, however -- she had half an hour before the trial began and any opportunity for her to help the Commanders and her friends would rapidly diminish. If she was to find clarity that Erwin had spoken of, this was her chance. As she pulled herself into the saddle, she decided to have faith. After all, maybe there was something about -- or in -- the library that would prove useful. And if there wasn’t, she would damn well figure something else out.

The squared-off facade of the palace, with its squat, rounded towers on each corner, loomed ahead. She had been inside Mitras a couple of times since she'd started shadowing Rico, but not for very long and only on official business. Everything was very clean on first glance, the buildings regimental and uniform in appearance, shops sold luxuries rather than essentials, windows had boxes of flowers hanging in front of them. She rode sidesaddle for effect, and took the side streets that she’d traced yesterday. Her hood was left down so as to not look too suspicious, even though it was cold; while she held the reins with her left hand, her right arm was held close to her stomach and her bangle dug into her ribs. As she rode, she heard disjointed rumors about a clash in the streets of Stohess yesterday -- presumably right after she’d left -- between the Military Police and the Scouting Legion. Even here, there were several MPs on patrol -- more than seemed reasonable.

"They nearly ran over my Timothy!"

"…believe they'd reach this far…"

"George and I saw the Police chasing seven of them!"

"…telling you, maneuvering gear but with guns as well!"

"…Captain Levi…"

"…don't know where they went…"

"…Smith on trial, that'll be it once and for all."

Mercedes frowned. If Captain Levi had been here, so had the Squad. But why? Had the farce of a kidnap of Eren and Historia gone wrong? She also hadn’t thought it’d take place in Stohess -- had they tracked them all the way here? And what was this talk of maneuvering gear with guns? That shouldn't have been possible. But no one was saying anything about any Scouting Legion members having been killed, at least.

A breeze reaching into her hood tickled her haphazardly-combed-over scalp. She remembered Jean forcibly stopping her from cutting all of her hair off, and the things she’d thought that night. Here she was worrying about people, when that night she’d been convinced everyone was just waiting to become a monster. And now man was fighting against man in the streets. Jean had seemed so certain, back then, when he’d stopped her. Was he certain now, even as Erwin’s plan seemed to be falling apart? What would they do if the trial went as badly as it was sure to? 

She stopped Sabine by a jeweler’s -- Hoffmann’s.  _ But...that’s my job, _ she realized.  _ I’m supposed to shadow Erwin, but also be prepared to kill the King. If those two people were to be in the same room...and yet, I’ve been given instructions to go to the library.  _ She tried to fit the pieces together. 

Mercedes urged Sabine onward, turning left at the corner on which Hoffmann’s stood. She snapped the reins and sped them into a steady trot. As the road curved just as promised, a park appeared on her right that was about the size of her grandmother's yard, complete with fountain and meandering path and garden beds. It was a beautiful waste, in her opinion. As she moved past the ornamental trees that were just past their spring flush, she was greeted by the warm stone steps and five-story façade of the library. As she looked the building over, it became apparent to her that maybe this wasn't a complete ruse after all. Separated only by a small moat, the eastern wing of the library faced the palace – and exactly where she knew the throne room to be.

_ But how am I supposed to do anything with this proximity, if I’m unarmed? _

She took in a deep breath and trotted on. Once there, she tied Sabine to an ornamental tree near the front entrance and went inside, greeted almost immediately by a heavy polished oak counter planted in the checkerboard marble tile. There were three elderly library staff behind it and when they saw her they froze, as if she was something they’d never expected to see. The two women whispered to one another.

“Um,” Mercedes began. The small sound echoed into the pristine expanse. So, too, did her steps as she walked quickly forward, No time trilling in her head. She held out the note she’d been given, “Good morning. I was told you needed to see this. There’s something I’m here to study. I hope you can help me.” Quick glances told her that instead of shock, their expressions were of recognition -- but rather than recognizing her personally it was as though she matched something that had been described to them. It was unsettling. 

The elderly man took the note and read it, inspected the seal, but it seemed only cursory -- as if he’d already made his decision by virtue of setting eyes on her. “Of course,” he said. The three of them gave her small, uncertain smiles. “This way, please.”

He led her up the four flights of stairs to the topmost floor without a word. At the top there extended a long, glossy-floored hall with a window at the end. The right side had a couple of open doorways and several closed single doors that she suspected hid smaller rooms, but the left side – the eastern side – had only a single pair of double doors, centrally-placed. She knew the room would be large even before the door had been opened for her.

The elderly attendant's mass of keys jingled and the loud clack of one of the doors unlocking echoed down the hall. He held the door for her. "One hour," he said. Mercedes tried to read his face: when she thanked him the smile he gave her was again small, but the uncertainty seemed to have replaced by a sadness. "I have to lock the door behind you," he added apologetically, "to keep access secure from unwelcome guests."

"That's fine," she said happily as she took off her coat and slung it over her arm. And truly, it was. She could pick a lock if she had to or bust down the door if all else failed.

He nodded to himself and Mercedes stepped inside, letting the door be closed behind her. She heard it lock again and the attendant's footsteps died away; she turned to face the room, the note from the Commander-in-Chief in hand.

Dark wood paneling halfway up the walls, a painted fifteen-foot ceiling, rich carpets on the floor. Maybe thirty by thirty, with the majority of the eastern, outermost wall covered in floor-to-ceiling windows with thick navy drapes. The central pair had been drawn back, allowing a thick column of brilliant morning sunshine to alight on the gilded spines of the books on the shelves opposite and a few various-sized freestanding glass cases. A cold fireplace was to her right at one end, around which was gathered a settee and armchairs upholstered in jewel tones. The amount of knowledge this room had to contain was mindboggling to her, the temptation to pour over everything like offering her a drink after a long time in a desert.

But it was to Mercedes' left that her eye was drawn and rested. At this end of the room was an ornately-carved table maybe twice the size of the kitchen table at her grandmother's. At the closer end was a pale blue box and at the far end, two straight-backed chairs – one at the head of the table and the second to its right. One had a plate full of delicious-looking hot food in front of it, while the other had only an empty plate. Steam rose into the beam of sunlight.

Mercedes frowned and checked the room again, stashing the note back up her sleeve. There was no one else here, and there was only one way in and out that she could see. The room was deathly quiet.

"What the fuck is this?" she asked herself in a whisper.

She walked toward the table, her gaze passing between the place setting and the blue box. On her way, she noticed that one of the display cases – unlocked, labeled 'Exhibit 7' – held two rifles that didn't look standard. Once she'd reached the table, she could see that even the two pewter goblets matched the plates – one was full of what looked like a red wine and the other was starkly empty. The smell of cooked meat, gravy, bread and vegetables reached out for her. She draped her coat on the back of the chair.

The top of the blue box had a small placard that labeled it 'Article 20A'. She carefully lifted the top away and set it aside. On the plush black interior lay a simple – what looked like unfinished – gold-painted, androgynous mask, its fastening ribbons pooled delicately underneath.

Mercedes felt her skin crawl. She glanced between the mask, the display case, the locked door, the window, the two places set for dinner. She felt the note up her sleeve as if the seal were branding the inside of her elbow.  _ What is this? They…they must have known. This was arranged. By who? Zackly? Erwin? Both? Or Pixis, even? But why the two place settings and only one helping of food? A last meal? _

She lifted the mask, let the black ribbons slip through her fingers, set it back down. Her gaze drifted back to the rifles in the display case, and from them to the window.

Rico's words came back to her:  _ "As easily as they can grant you freedom, they can snuff you out." _ But so did Erwin's: _ "You are still searching for clarity, and for something to believe in. This is that way. Deep down, you know that too. What may appear to be a crisis of confidence is in fact the motivation, the conviction, that sets you apart." _

_ There's still time – you can still walk away, _ she tried to reason with herself. But she was walking up to the display case of Exhibit Seven, carefully sliding off the top lid and placing it on the rug. She was reaching in and lifting out one of the rifles – old-looking yet, amazingly, breech-loading; clean and even more surprisingly, loaded – and seeing a worn carving of the name 'Carello' on its stock. She was shaking. A clock she hadn't previously noticed on the mantle struck Nine A.M.

"What is this?" she moaned.

As the clock continued to chime, Mercedes hurried over to the window, keeping out of sight but craning her neck to see past the curtains, across the narrow moat and into the nigh-on matching windows of the throne room. She could see the four chairs of the military officials in front of the raised platform on which sat the throne, its two guards with spears. She could see King Fritz as he leaned his head on his hand. It was so clear a shot it was ridiculous, farcical.

And she could also see how Commander Erwin Smith was led in front of these Chairs, this throne, and pushed to his knees in chains. The clock stopped chiming.

Mercedes' heartrate sped up, despite her trying to calm herself. "How am I supposed to know?" she asked. "How am I supposed to know?"

_ You still have a choice, _ some distant voice told her in her mind even as she rushed back to the table and put on the mask, tying it securely behind her head. It was like her body was moving independently of her mind. She grabbed one of the dining chairs and with the rifle in hand, she pulled it back to the window. One portion of the window was opened slowly so as not to attract attention with a glare off the panes.  _ You still have a choice. You can walk away. There's no guarantee of a way out if you take this shot. _

She thought she could make out Erwin speaking, now. Who really knew what he was saying? Pixis – she could see Commander Pixis there now, too, in his formal long coat.

_ How am I supposed to know if Erwin's plan is successful? If it isn't, how am I supposed to know if this is the right thing to do? _ she thought. She remembered telling herself this whole while that she wouldn't know until she aimed and at the time, she was comfortable with that answer. Now she wasn't so sure. She felt like the empty space at the table was watching her even though a glance over her shoulder didn't reveal anyone.

_ You may gain clarity – you may help the fate of humanity – but you may lose those you love in the process. _

Mercedes propped the rifle’s barrel on the back of the dining chair, bracing the butt against her shoulder. Her thumb grazed the carving of her surname but she had no room to think about its meaning. She sighted along the barrel, wavering back and forth by millimeters as she sought the perfect shot. Her finger caressed the trigger. She stilled her heavy breathing. There was nothing to do but wait for a sign. She knew she should be thinking of an escape plan but everything seemed drowned out other than her, the rifle, the King, and Erwin.

_ You can still walk away, _ that voice compelled her.

"No. I can't walk away," she whispered.  _ Titans mean nothing in the face of the true corruption inside these Walls. Evil comes from within, and so must peace. This revolution has to come to pass – either by the Commander's hand or mine – or I’ll never find peace, or answers, of my own. _

 

* * *

 

Mercedes wasn't sure how long she waited. It seemed as though during the time she crouched there, her arms frozen in position and her hands holding the rifle so tightly that it became part of her body, that her world had inverted. What must have been mere minutes became hours; the grand planes of the windows of the throne room became lines lost in the minute movement of the military officials' lips; the sunshine that stifled her breathing through the mask became an isolating darkness that both panted down her neck and helped her focus. She began to wonder if she would ever have her answer and if so, if it was to be found in a bullet to the King's head or the second, empty space at the table.

Suddenly, they were hauling Erwin to his feet. Mercedes breathed in sharply and held it. They were turning to take him away. She closed one eye, aligned with King Fritz's skull, aimed –

Pixis' aide, Anka, burst into the throne room. She hammered her fist to her chest in a salute and shouted something. Everyone froze, and then looked at one another in panic. There were wild gesticulations and more shouts.

_ What's going on? _ Mercedes’ eyes flickered rapidly from individual to individual, trying to take in what she could.

Commander Pixis held up a hand and seemed to order something. A dark-haired, stout military official stood before the King in objection. The other three soon grouped together to confer with him. A slenderer dark-haired man that she was fairly sure was Commander Nile Dok, of the Military Police, received words from them and then stood to one side, speaking animatedly.

And then, the doors to the throne room parted again and an older man with glasses, a beard and a trench coat appeared, backed by several soldiers with rifles. Everyone in the throne room seemed surprised at his entry and looked aghast as he continued to speak. After a moment, he showed Erwin a piece of paper.

The stout military official then began to shout at the King and kick his throne. Erwin's shackles were unlocked and dropped to the ground. Some of the newly-arrived soldiers held up their rifles and along with Pixis and the man in the trench coat, subdued the other officials and bodyguards around the King.

Mercedes let out the breath she'd held, and lowered her own rifle. When the man in the trench coat wandered forward with his hands behind his back, closer to the windows, and looked directly at her, Mercedes then knew that she was looking at Commander-in-Chief Zackly. He looked at her for a moment more and then turned away, revealing the dark shield with a plain white, equal-armed cross on the back of his coat.

 

* * *

 

Jurgen shuffled back to the double doors of the Special Research Department, pulling the wad of silver keys out of his pocket. As instructed, an hour had passed. He took a moment to find the right key – rarely-used, small – and unlocked one of the doors with a jingle.

He found the young lady he'd shown in earlier on the other side of the door a few steps away. He took a step back in surprise and chuckled. "Ready, I see?" he said. A glance over her shoulder showed him that the room looked untouched, as if she'd merely stood in it for the past hour.

"Yes, quite," she said with a charming smile. It was uncanny how much she resembled the Albrecht Portrait, come to think of it.

"It was mentioned that you may want to borrow Exhibit Seven from us for further study…" he recalled.

Her smile didn't fade. Without hesitation she replied, "That won't be necessary, but thank you." She slipped past him, draping her oxblood-colored coat over the crook of her arm.

Jurgen shrugged to himself, locked the door behind them, and followed her back down the hall.


	20. Loose Ends

**Chapter 19**

_Summer, Year 850_

 

No matter how much she wanted to flee as fast as she could from the library and that eerie Special Research room, Mercedes forced herself to ride Sabine at a casual pace and remain sidesaddle. Encouragingly, there were far less Military Police around than there had been when she'd arrived and many more Garrison soldiers. Like falling into the flow of a herd, she followed the people of Sina as they drew toward the central square in front of the palace and became a crowd. Their points and murmurs were directed at the gallows originally intended for Erwin's execution.

Mercedes hovered on the periphery, letting the pedestrians move past her. She watched two armed attendants and Erwin and Zackly climb onto the platform to speak to the crowd, and she waited to listen. She noticed then that one of Erwin's eyes was almost swollen shut and he looked more disheveled than she'd ever seen him, even after battle, despite now being cloaked in his own formal long coat. His resolute gaze found her but only briefly, and his expression did not change.

"We stand here before you to offer clarity," Zackly announced, his voice booming around the square. The crowd fell quiet. "Many of you are no doubt surprised to see that Commander Erwin Smith, of the Scouting Legion, stands beside me rather than in the noose that was prepared for him. This is because it is due to the Commander's efforts and those of his men that the truth has been unveiled – the monarchy under the former King Fritz has been disposed. The old regime has fallen."

The crowd began to mutter among themselves. Mercedes kept her face neutral, as did Erwin.

"Let it be understood: this was not done lightly, or because we want military providence over the Walls," Zackly continued. "There was evidence that the old regime was acting in its own, self-preservative interests, to the detriment of the people. _Our_ sole interest is in the welfare of humanity and ergo, the restoration of the true monarchy to the throne. We will work tirelessly to do this. The first step has been taken today."

Zackly, Erwin and the attendants then descended from the stage in the rising cacophony of the crowd. She saw several figures with what looked like notepads push their way to Commander Nile Dok. Erwin and Zackly then climbed into a carriage and it edged forward slowly until people stood aside to let it through.

 _That's it, then,_ Mercedes thought. On the surface it was almost anticlimactic. She turned her horse to leave and the carriage rode past her.

 

* * *

 

"Is that her?" Zackly asked as the carriage edged forward, prompting the crowds to part.

Erwin looked to where Zackly was nodding – a woman in a purple dress atop a distinctive black mare that they were passing – and though she looked like any Sina native, Erwin knew it was indeed Carello. He'd seen her from the gallows. Deep down, part of his gratefulness for the success of the coup was devoted to Carello not having to pull the trigger and insodoing taint her life forever – or whatever would remain of it. But his uncertainty as to why the Commander-in-Chief would have helped get her into place for an assassination gave him pause.

"Who?" he feigned.

"The Carello girl. Your contingency plan. The fire that drifted close to the gunpowder."

What was he after? What did it matter to put a face to a name? How did he find out her name to begin with? Erwin could only reason that Zackly must have gleaned that information from Pixis, since he himself had been adamant about exposing her role to as few people as possible for her own safety. And now the topmost military official not only knew about her, but had helped her be accomplice to all this? Furthermore he'd done it so well that apparently she didn't even need to be armed.

At Erwin's silence, Zackly laughed to himself. "Doesn't matter, I suppose." He crossed his arms.

Though Zackly had obviously dismissed it, Erwin was still uncomfortable. He'd have to find out more another time, another way. Perhaps Pixis knew more. But for now, diversion was the best solution.

He breathed deeply in, and returned to the thoughts that had kept him quiet during the Commander-in-Chief's speech on the gallows. He remembered the look of dismay in Hange's eyes when he'd told her she would be Commander in his stead should he fall, the expressions of his men. He remembered Levi promising that he would do whatever it took, including losing yet another squad so soon after they'd formed.

"The best choice for humanity would have been to leave everything to the old monarchy," Erwin said lowly. He remembered what he had heard the pressmen and civilians suggest to Nile – that now, the people simply didn't know what to believe any more. Neither did he.

Zackly watched him, arms folded. He then knocked on the little window behind him to get the driver’s attention and said, “Take us via Poydras Street.”

They followed the main street for a little while longer, and then took a westward side avenue. Erwin assumed it was to get them out of as much of the public’s attention as possible. He glanced out of the window and thought he saw a soldier with gear spring across the gap in some rooftops.

“You’re referring to the cleaner way of doing things, no doubt,” Zackly said.

Erwin looked again, trying to be as surreptitious as possible. They were taking a curve over a somewhat open plaza that ran parallel to another street just visible through some shrubbery. He spotted Carello again, walking her horse calmly -- no doubt to keep attention from her, too -- down this street.

“But we’ve done the best we can, you and I. Different methods, mind you, but with the same goal at heart.”

The road began to curve away from the plaza. Before Carello was lost to view, however, Erwin saw she was being shadowed by five soldiers on the rooftops. He heard a couple of gunshots, and her horse sprang forward -- he saw her head whip around in surprise as she fled out of sight, the soldiers in pursuit.

Because Zackly did not seem fazed -- indeed, he was smiling contentedly at him -- Erwin kept his reaction under control. _I have no proof that this is his doing, that he’s tying up loose ends,_ he thought. Nonetheless he urged her inwardly to be as accomplished of a rider as her uncle, Joaquin, the man who’d saved his life. _I’m sorry --_

“Whether this revolution is good or bad for humanity is of no interest to me. I suppose that makes me something of a villain, to do what I can to pursue what _is_ of interest to me, however hypocritical it may be recorded as in the history books. But you’re no different, are you?” Zackly said. “We’ve both had quite the mix of the selfless and the personal, the clean and the filthy.”

“And what is of interest to you?” Erwin asked. _Surely going after the person you ensured would be able to see your revolution through...isn’t a personal interest?_

Zackly smiled more broadly. “Justice, of course.”

 

* * *

 

Mercedes cursed repeatedly under her breath as she tried to shake off her pursuers, who seemed to be members of the same type of Military Police that had fought with Squad Levi judging by the fact that they were firing at her while using their gear. A shot grazed Sabine’s flank, making her squeal and skitter to one side, overturning a pile of apple crates. Mercedes rubbed a hand frantically on her neck and hunkered forward, urging her on.

_This is bad. I can’t have them hit Sabine. But we need open ground to be able to pick up enough speed to put distance between us and them. And no buildings, nothing for them to work with._

She veered right at a junction and abruptly was in an agora filled with people -- a late-morning market. The heckling and bartering was quickly replaced by people shouting in surprise and dashing out of the way to clear a path for her. This slowed her down somewhat, and one of her pursuers tried to cut her off -- instead of blades, she saw pistol-like guns in his hands. As he swung into the open space and aimed, Mercedes seized the saddle pommel, released one foot from its stirrup and swung down one side of Sabine -- the shot passed overhead and zipped through a stall canopy. She quickly righted herself and repeated the move on the mare’s opposite side to both pass underneath the soldier and grab a canopy pole; back into the saddle, and a quick reverse around the pommel over Sabine’s neck so that she was sitting backward.

The one she’d passed underneath made a rapid turn and went after her; four more rose behind him. Mercedes flung the pole, ripped canopy and all, at them and turned back around to take advantage of the chaos. She let out a high-pitch whistle and Sabine immediately veered left down another shadowy street.

 _That’ll buy us a minute,_ Mercedes thought. She had no idea where she was, but soon spotted a clue -- a narrow canal glimpsed through the buildings. More bullets picked after her. A lower-pitch whistle, and Sabine veered right. The canal located properly, she began to follow it. _This should rejoin with the main canal, which will head south and to the gate. Hopefully._

The canal widened a little, requiring more significant bridges that in turn slowed her progress when she had to go around them. She kept glancing over her shoulder -- they were gaining on her, but at least her stunt with the pole seemed to have taken one of them out. She started to panic. A bullet whizzed close to her ear. They galloped along the grass and decorative flagstone rim of the canal.

_Calm down. Calm down. Focus. You --_

The fifth came from the right, diving down from a rooftop nearly on top of her.

_Fuck._

A shot hit Mercedes’ upper left leg and another her left shoulder as Sabine turned, but did not rear. The fifth soldier descended, aiming at nearly point-blank range. The others were almost on them, too.

 _Not my Sabine, never Sabine!_   Mercedes trilled, wide-eyed. Desperate, Mercedes jerked on the reins and deliberately made Sabine rear. The mare roared and kicked her front hooves at the fifth soldier. Mercedes let out a fluttering, long whistle as best she could and as she let herself fall backwards, slapped Sabine on the rear. The mare took off like she wanted, and Mercedes tumbled into the canal, hitting some debris on the way down.

It wasn’t as deep as she’d hoped -- bullets still pinged off the stone sides and sliced through the chilly water alarmingly close -- but it was enough. She dragged herself along with the current under the surface until the channel narrowed and quickened again, carrying her along with it. The water wasn’t the clearest and thus made her eyes sting when she tried to open them to see where she was, but at least the bullets didn’t seem to be landing nearby if at all. Her wounds stung too. She risked it, and surfaced -- she was passing under a bridge. Nonetheless she took a gulp of air and went back under, just in case.

The current strengthened as the canal sloped downward, and it was increasingly hard for her to control her passage. When she managed to surface for air she saw no signs of being followed, at least, but the canal sides were too steep and the current too swift for her to pull herself out.

_Shit, out of the frying pan into the fire. Where the fuck is this going?_

 

* * *

 

Mercedes wasn’t sure how long or for how far she was in the water before the canal at last widened and slowed into a pool surrounded by earthen dikes and skinny trees. Her feet couldn’t touch the bottom. Ahead was the gentle tumbling of a lock or dam. Although she was battered and bruised from the debris at the bottom of the canal and tired from fighting to keep afloat, Mercedes pushed herself into swimming for shore -- not that it was one of her strongest skills. No one seemed around, at least.

She hauled herself out of the water using a tree; its branches tore at the dress and her skin, caught on her hair that was already half-out of its pins and matted to the side of her face and neck. Everything felt sore. She glanced around and with dismay, noted this looked like the countryside.  

 _Where the fuck am I?_ She limped to the top of the dike, slipping in old leaves once or twice, to get a better view. The line of buildings pronouncing Mitras’ suburbia was about as tall as her thumb, on the horizon. The sun was starting its descent into what she guess was early evening. She tried to be optimistic. _At least it’s a clear day, and summer,_ she thought, though this was more northward than she was used to and still not exactly balmy. The water had been cold too and she was soaked through. She began to shiver, and her wounds were stinging anew. _Shit._

As well as wondering how she was going to make it back to the capital without a horse -- and from there, find Sabine, grab her things, and somehow get back out of said capital -- now that her head was quieter she wondered about why she had been targeted in the first place. None of the MPs she’d seen at the announcement of the coup had been wearing that kind of gear, and besides, it was unlikely the MPs would go against the Scouting Legion so openly even if they were in possession of new gear. This suggested a separate faction.

 _And to send the same faction after me that they sent after Squad Levi means they think we’re linked. The only thing that links us is my part in ensuring the coup. Which means someone tipped them off to who I am and what I was doing._ She sat down with a grunt on a fallen tree. _But surely the only people who knew what I was doing, were on Squad Levi’s side? This doesn’t make any sense._ Not that she expected to, but she hadn’t recognized any of the faces she’d hurriedly counted. Abruptly, she remembered hearing that her fellow Western Division graduate and Trost survivor, Brighid Reine, had joined the Military Police. She also recalled she’d been unkind and dismissive of her during their trainee days, which wouldn’t help if she decided to try to find her and quiz her.

Mercedes irritably wrung out her hair and pushed it back, but didn’t feel like fixing it. She wrung out the skirt of the dress, too, and took off her boots and held them upside down -- nothing came out, but the action made her feel better. She’d try to dry off in the sun at least a little while she could, since dampness and the cold of nightfall wouldn’t mix well. She gently poked at the shot in her shoulder and leg.

“What a reward,” she muttered and winced.

After a few minutes, however, she stood and began to trudge onward. She was never that good at idleness.

 

* * *

 

Smoke had attracted her to the edge of the forest. The sun had disappeared behind the trees not long ago, and Mercedes wanted to investigate whether the fire that gave off the smoke could be borrowed or taken by force for her own benefit. When she got to the treeline it was evident that the source was farther into the trees than she’d thought, and she plunged inward as darkness settled.

Ahead was a rundown cabin, from what she could make out, and shreds of light were visible between its rotting planks while smoke rose from the half-toppled chimney. She could make out six horses grazing around it. However, a sneeze from much closer grabbed her attention.

“Quiet!” someone hissed. “We didn’t track them all this way just for you to give us up right at the end!”

 _No firelight,_ Mercedes noted, squinting in the direction of the voice. _‘Track’?_    She glanced back to the cabin, counted the horses again. There were no other horses in the direction of the voice. _Left farther away, maybe?_   She crept forward one slow step at a time, using tree roots and patches of moss and grass to remain quiet. A few steps more, hunkered low, and she was able to pick out the clumped bodies of two MPs.

They were quiet a minute more, and then one of them said, “All right,” he tapped one on the arm, “you go let Captain Ronan know we’ve found ‘em. I’ll stay and keep an eye on things.”

The one that was signaled rose. She could hear the smile as he said, “‘M sure he’ll be glad to confront Captain Levi himself.”

Mercedes paused. _Squad Levi are in that cabin._ She watched the signaled one rise and start to creep away. _Reinforcements -- and there would have to be a lot of them if they think they can take on Levi alone much less with a squad that includes Mikasa. Haven’t they heard about the dethronement?_ Her heartrate sped up. _But if I stop them here…_

Her hand fell to her leg, the skirt alternately stiff and moist from blood.

She looked between the two MPs. _Don’t let it all be for nothing. You can do this. Prioritize. Get the retreating one first._ She crept after him, heading up a rise that would take her above and past him and thus, provide her only advantage while unarmed and injured.


	21. Honest

**Chapter 20**

_ Summer, Year 850 _

 

“My turn,” said Jean and clapped Connie on the shoulder, who yawned but otherwise didn’t say anything as they swapped. The door shunted closed on the view of the sleeping squad behind him, and Jean stretched. He hadn’t got much sleep earlier and to be honest, was too on edge still and not as good as the others at distracting himself from it. It was like his body was itching all over.

_ Has it happened yet? Has the King been dethroned? Has Commander Erwin been freed? Where’s Hange? How long do we have to stay out here? Eren and Historia...  _ His mind went over and over the past few hours.  _ And Mercedes...did she get out, like we did? Did she have to do anything? What if -- _

Rustling and grunting some ways away in the undergrowth caught his attention. He took up the rifle Connie had left by the door in case it was a wild animal, since gear use would be pointless, and paced into the small moonlit clearing. He paused, listening. Another growl sounded like a woman’s and against his better judgement, he went to investigate.

The sounds brought him several meters away from the cabin into the woods proper. As his eyes adjusted he made out one figure chasing a taller one away from their camp, and he pursued too. He debated whether to fire the rifle, or use his gear, or go back for reinforcements or a horse, but in the end simply kept running. If they noticed him they didn’t seem to care.

The land sank downward; the hunter and the hunted temporarily vanished out of Jean’s line of sight behind an uprooted tree. He heard a louder, man’s grunt and the thump of someone falling. Jean rounded the massive rootball of the tree...

Someone with dark hair in a violet dress leapt onto a soldier -- a member of the Military Police, Jean realized -- and ripped a knife across his throat from behind. Jean froze. Her head snapped up to look behind her and Jean met the fierce dark eyes and blood-splattered face of none other than Mercedes herself.

She stared at him for a few moments as though trying to convince herself he wasn’t an enemy too. 

_ Am I one of the monsters she saw? _ he remembered thinking. Maybe the answer was here, now. He held his breath.

“Jean,” she said quietly, and then heaved a great breath along with a wince of pain and slumped to one side off the soldier. He'd never heard her say his name before and he hated the way his heart did a little dance when it heard it, even as the fear of her -- itself not wholly unpleasant -- bubbled in him. She stared at the knife in her hands, continuing to breathe deeply, and tiredly tossed it to one side before falling onto her back.

“What…” Jean began.

“They tracked you,” she forced out. Her voice was hoarse. “Killed them.”

“‘Them’?”

“Two. They were about to tell their reinforcements of your position.”

Jean crept closer to her, still clutching the rifle as if she were the wild animal that would spring on him any second. For some reason he wanted her to -- even more unknown was why part of him didn’t want to fight back if she did. The hot blood gurgling from the MP’s throat was slowing to a trickle, the pool of it lifting the leaf mold and pushing it against Mercedes’ arm. 

He swallowed, got a rein on his thoughts. “Why didn’t you just shoot them?”

“Reinforcements would have heard,” she hissed in pain, “the shots.”

“Where’s your horse? Your uniform?” he asked next. Though granted, her boots were uniform boots.

She only laughed, and only once.

This snapped him back to reality, and an unexpectedly angry one. “What the fuck are you doing out here?”

“It’s a long story.”

Jean came to stand beside her. He noticed, then, that not only was she filthy and oddly-clothed, but she was injured -- shot twice, to be precise, with scrapes and bruises on her face and a nasty fresh gash on her forearm. One hand was holding her side, which didn’t bode well. Really, it was a wonder she’d been running at all. 

“God I’m tired,” she muttered to herself.

When he looked back at her face, she’d passed out. He hissed her name and tried lightly slapping her face, but with no result. “Damn it,” he spat.  _ Damn it I hate you. _ He gritted his teeth.  _ I should leave you here, stupid bitch.  _ The irony of having been worried about her safety for the past day or two was not lost on him, but nevertheless he stood at her head and thought about what a perfect opportunity this was to be rid of her. His own tiredness was choosing that moment to start creeping up on him, making it worse.

With the twilight came the cold, embodied in the moonlight that filtered through the trees. He knew he couldn’t stand here all night. He had to make a decision. Either, go through the trouble of bringing her back to the camp, and tell the truth, or leave her out here -- maybe even finish her off -- and take the credit for killing the two scouts himself and get the squad to move out by saying he’d interrogated them for the information about the MP reinforcements nearby.

_ Leave her…  _ He crouched.

It was a tempting idea. As much as he didn't want to admit it, now that he had better practice with taking Marco's advice and employing his leadership skills, Mercedes was a threat to him – or at least, she had been, and could potentially still be if she survived this and furthermore got back to her old self, even if she was in a separate military branch. As abrasive as she could be, she was smart and had a way of compelling the others that he hadn't yet mastered, and the amount of times he'd overheard the commanders or squad leaders say something about her potential was bothersome. He'd never heard them say such things about him. He could stop that right here.

His gaze fell on her face, washed out by the moonlight falling on it. The scabs on her scalp from the time she'd cut her hair with a dinnerknife had of course healed, but she seem to have gone so far as to tidy up the sections on the right side of her head that she hadn't reached before he stopped her, cutting them short too as if to preserve the look. He wondered if she liked it or whether it was serving some deeper purpose. He still didn't know why she did it, or what had happened the night she snuck out. He reached out and plucked one of the strands of her hair, loose from what appeared to have been an updo at some point, rubbing it between her fingers as if he could divine from its texture. Despite the strand still in his pocket that he’d thumbed over and over, the fascination remained. He'd never seen hair like hers before – thick, naturally wavy verging on curly, glossy like ink – and only Ymir came close to having her coloring much less her build. If Mikasa was descended from the race known as Asians, what was she?

He let it fall. _ Why does that even matter? _   he thought.

_ “I think she’s pretty,” _ Marco had said.

_ “Everyone thinks she’s pretty.” _

_ “Except you.” _

His hand wandered next to daub his thumb at the corner of her mouth to wipe away the sticky blood that had splattered it. Her bottom lip was tugged a little in the process and as soon as the thought came into his head that it was one of the loveliest things he'd seen in a long time, he regretted it, because then he was remembering how she'd said his name and the piece of her hair he'd kept and how he was still trying to figure out what fruit she’d smelled like. He couldn’t smell it now, but in catching the color of the dress out of the corner of his eye suddenly he realized --

Mercedes swung a fist at him and he caught it sloppily -- they both seemed surprised by it. Her eyes -- previously wide not with incredulousness but with fear, oddly -- narrowed again. Her free hand slapped him hard on the other cheek; he let go of her wrist as he lost his balance and she flopped back down. Jean braced himself on his knee and brought his other hand up to the hot sting.

_ Plums. She smelled of plums,  _ he finished his thought. Touching her like that had been stupid, in retrospect.  _ What's wrong with me? _   he demanded of himself, appalled. But the sting of her slap -- he held his hand to it to covet it a moment longer -- through it and the desperate, instinctual punch before it, he’d glimpsed something honest about them both.

“If you're going to leave me here to die, you should hurry up about it,” came Mercedes' mumble. A wet cough shook her chest and head.

Jean jerked himself away from her as if she'd read his thoughts. “What are you talking about?” he said. “I was just about to pick you up.” He shouldered the rifle and carefully pushed his hands underneath her.

“I’m not stupid, Kirstein. This is a good place and time to get rid of somebody,” she said, and somehow managed to make it sound seductive. However, she didn’t protest as he lifted her and began walking. “Particularly considering how we don’t like each other that much.”

But it wasn't the truth, not exactly – it wasn't that he didn't like her, he did – no he didn't! He hated himself for that, and it was all her fault. "You think you can read anybody like you read a book," he snapped. "And maybe that's true. But we know barely anything about you – you fool all of us, all the time. How does that make you any better than Annie? I'd be well within my rights to leave you here," he said. He was aware how desperate he sounded but couldn't stop himself.

"I'm not any better than her," Mercedes agreed.

"This is exactly what I'm talking about!" Jean stopped at the top of the rise. "Stop being so fucking holier-than-thou!" he shouted at her face, not caring if anyone heard. "You want us to think you're humble, but the truth is that you're the opposite! You want it all, and you think you know everything, and you think you can make anyone do what you want them to do! You're a snake."

Once again, her blank expression enraged him even more. "Are you done?" she asked.

Jean's lips pressed firmly together and he had to actively will himself to calm down. He reminded himself that he was shouting uncontrollably at an injured person, if not a comrade, and kept walking.

“Who knew you were holding on to all that shit since the trainee days,” she mumbled.

“You’re a fine one to be talking about holding on to shit.”

A snuck glance told him she was about to retort, but then they heard horses. The sound quickly grew closer until it resolved itself into four of the animals, on which rode Hange, Moblit, Hitch, and Marlowe. They drew to a sudden stop at the sight.

“What happened here?” Hange asked. “Is that you, Mercedes?”

“Unfortunately,” Mercedes grated out.

For a long moment, Hange stared hard at her. “You were there, weren’t you? And they came after you.”

Mercedes didn’t respond immediately. “You should relocate everyone,” she said. “I caught two Military Police scouts that know about,” she coughed, “your position. Doesn’t look like they’ve heard about the dethronement. They’ve got reinforcements nearby...won’t take long before they come looking for their men.”

“Right,” Hange said dazedly, appearing to be thinking of something else as she stared at Mercedes’ bloody dress. 

“Dethronement?” Jean repeated. “So the coup was a success, then?” He felt a little lighter.

“It was,” Hange agreed and came back to the present. She waved at Hitch and Marlowe, “You two, share a horse if you don’t mind,” and ignored Hitch’s whine to turn back to Jean, “Take her and go, Jean. I’ll explain the situation to Levi.”

“Huh? Go where?”

“Just, out of Wall Sina. She can’t ride on her own and needs to be seen to as soon as possible.”

Mercedes began sternly, “Squad Leader if you get me a horse --” 

“But what about the mission?” Jean asked over the top of her. He couldn’t control his frown -- this absolutely was not what he had in mind. Like hell he’d miss out on getting Eren and Historia back just to go twiddle his thumbs somewhere else.

“Moblit,” Hange turned around again, “the map?”

Moblit began fishing in his pocket. “I sure hope you know what you’re doing, Squad Leader.”

“It’s in your head, right?” Hange asked him as she took it.

“Of course.”

“Then it’s in mine, and then yes, I know what I’m doing.” She handed the small piece of paper to Jean. “This is where we’re going next -- the Reiss family grounds. In light of the Military Police still on our tail and waiting for Erwin, we’ll probably make a detour to throw them off before we head there properly. Two days.”

“Two days to get out of  _ and  _ back into Sina  _ and _ catch up with you?” Jean rephrased helplessly. Marlowe, with Hitch behind him, led the now-spare horse over to Jean. 

Hange shrugged, “That’s all I can give you. We’ll have to do our best without you if you don’t make it in time.”

Jean was about to say something ugly about the person he was holding when, in fact, the person he was holding spoke up. “Sir, I have no idea what your next mission is but I’m assuming you need all the manpower you can get,” Mercedes said. Her voice was very thin, Jean noticed. “I can manage if I can...be snuck back into the capital, or Stohess. I can even ride alone if needs be.”

“It’s dangerous for you to stay there,” Hange said.

“No more dangerous than a long ride in this condition,” Mercedes countered. “They probably think they got me, anyhow.”

At length, Hange sighed. “No time to debate. Saddle up, Kirstein. Take her to the Stohess HQ -- Wil Ives, our field medic, should still be there. That’s better than nothing. Catch up soon as you can.” She trotted ahead and the others followed.

Frowning to himself and biting his tongue, Jean helped Mercedes into the saddle first and then got behind her. A swift jab of his heels and they sprung back the way Hange and the others had come, riding carefully in the dark.

“This is fucking ridiculous,” he grumbled.

“At least I managed a compromise for you,” Mercedes quipped.

“Make yourself look like a fucking martyr, you mean.” When she didn’t respond he wondered if the comment had hit a nerve, but then reasoned he probably wouldn’t have been so lucky. A roll of the eyes, maybe.

Once they were out of the forest and on open meadow, he rode them perhaps more roughly than was wise. At first it was unintentional but then he did it because he noticed she wasn’t complaining even though she must have been in pain. How much could she stand, for the sake of pride? But also, how much could he push it, resist sympathy, for the sake of his own pride? He was even resisting holding on to her in any way. Which of them would break down first? There’d been a chink in her armor earlier when she’d tried to punch him, and earlier still, after she’d killed the MP and seemed to have debated over whether he was an enemy too. When she was injured, and cornered, and vulnerable -- when there was pain -- he could get in, find his answers.

Jean dove into this idea despite himself. “What did Hange mean when she said ‘You were there’? That ‘they came after you’?”

“The same people that your squad fought in Stohess -- the ones with the guns instead of blades for their gear. Someone must have tipped them off that there was a link between us.”

“What were you doing in Stohess?” When she didn’t answer immediately, he pressed, “What did Erwin have you do?”

“Be ready to assassinate King Fritz, if everything else failed,” she said.

She said it so bluntly and so readily that Jean nearly fell off the horse. He hadn’t wanted to be right. “What? Why you? What’s so special about you?”

“Nothing.”

There was something different about that word. She didn’t mean it like she’d meant that she was no different from Annie. It wasn’t an attempt at a false leveling of the playing field -- it was self-deprecating. Come to think of it, was she shaking or was it just the fact that they were on the horse? 

_ ‘Nothing’...meaning, you were expendable. That’s what you mean. Oh. _

He frowned, reconsidering his tactic to prod at her wounds. Was this really who he was? He could hear Marco now, and see the disappointed look on his face – how was this demonstrating understanding of weakness? As he looked down at her, he suddenly realized that he was looking at the vulnerable, weak Mercedes – beyond her physical injuries – rather than the invincible, infallible one they all thought they were looking at. How had he missed it?

The sick feeling rose in his stomach; Jean felt plunged into guilt. All this time, they were -- he was -- so busy with criticizing  _ how _ she acted, that they'd not poured enough energy into understanding  _ why _ . He didn't like her, still, and maybe she was still a threat to him as another potential leader, but maybe he could lessen the blow by taking a different approach. He had to be strategic about this and now was a good opportunity.

Jean slowed the horse to a canter. Overhead the sky was clear, riddled with stars, and the wind on his face was cold. After a minute or so he realized he hadn’t said anything by way of response to her strangely defeated ‘Nothing’. “Are you cold?” he asked, noting her bare right arm holding on to the horse’s mane. The left one -- the injured one -- was tucked tightly against her stomach. There was a flash as something glinted on her right wrist. Jean refocused – a bangle. How he hadn't noticed it before was a mystery. It was silver – no, gold – with at least two colors of tiny stones set into the metal to follow the shape of – he couldn't make it out; it was moving too much as they moved.

“No,” she said, barely audible over the horse’s hooves.

He hesitated, then shoved the reins at her. “Here.” While she held them, he removed his cloak and tucked it between them, draping it over her shoulders. She didn’t comment, but held it closed in front of her and passed back the reins. He too resisted a snide comment, with difficulty. A medal for that would be in order when he got back, he felt. Instead, he continued reluctantly, “Saw your arm. Two bullets, right? Anything else?”

“Rib or two, maybe. The first one hit me with the rifle pretty hard. It’s fine.”

“That’s not fine.”

“I have ‘good vitality’, as my grandmother likes to say. It’s fine for me.”

“You’re making this difficult.”

She was unexpectedly quiet, and nothing else was said all the way to Stohess.


	22. Shock

**Chapter 21**

_ Summer, Year 850 _

 

HQ was bustling; it seemed now that its reputation was on its way to being restored thanks to the  _ Berg _ , the Scouting Legion was wasting no time in filling in the gaps it had so recently left. Jean barely had anywhere to tie up his horse in the adjacent stable. 

“I wonder if Sabine is safe,” Mercedes said to herself, looking around as she slid off the horse.

“Who?”

“My horse. I bailed off her into the river so they wouldn’t shoot her.”

Jean wasn’t sure how to respond. He waited to see if she could stand and walk all right on her own but not only was she weak on her feet, her face was lost, disoriented. It was as though the adrenaline and spite that’d kept her going was being overpowered by not only her injuries, but a far heavier internal burden. “Come on,” he said to make her focus, and draped her right arm over his shoulder to help her walk. He moved slowly; she was breathing shallowly and rapidly with pain. 

The cold metal and gem of the bangle knocked against his knuckles. He looked at it more closely: a single hinged band forming a feline of some sort, head nearly biting its tail, with pale and dark gems creating a spotted pattern for its fur from its upper back to its head. One of the stones for the eyes was missing, as were some of the tinier ones, but otherwise it was beautiful. He'd not seen anything like it and didn't have to guess far to assume it was valuable – far too valuable for someone like her to have it much less be wearing it when it could so easily be lost. 

_ That’d be a good distraction, though, _ he thought. As they navigated out of the stables and toward the front door -- and everyone coming and going from both -- he asked, “What’s that?” and tapped her wrist to indicate it.

“My grandmother’s,” she said. “Gave it to me when I signed up.”

“But what is it?” 

"She told me there were creatures like this once. It's called a jaguar. It was her grandmother before her's. Now it's mine."

"Never heard of them." Although he hadn’t intended it, this seemed to shut down the tiny conversation, which disappointed him, surprisingly. He felt incapable of restarting it, however -- he wasn’t good at small talk with people he didn’t know well, her least of all, and besides the area was noisy.

The front door was propped open and leaking golden light and shreds of shadows into the murky night street, making the cobbles glisten. Among the smell of nervous sweat and horse was the smell of cooked onion and bread. Soldiers parted for them as he ascended the threshold. He couldn’t remember what Ives looked like, and started asking around as he headed farther into the building. He saw Commander Erwin from a distance, who also spotted them but did not approach; Jean didn’t miss the unexpected look of shock and guilt on his face but didn’t have time to think about it. 

They were eventually directed to one of the bunk rooms upstairs while someone went to find him, leaving Jean the task of laying her down and keeping her company -- the bunk rooms were empty owing to the fact that no one anticipated staying here long, so there was no crowd for him to vanish into. He wandered a few paces back to the door that was currently letting in the only light, and listened to the hubbub downstairs. He rubbed his eyes. 

“Why are you still here? You can leave, you know,” Mercedes said. Her voice was breathy, almost sad if he didn’t know better.

Jean turned. She was staring at the underside of the bed above her, her eyes almost closed. The light barely reached her, but his shadow fell across her lap. He wasn’t sure why he was still here, if he was honest. By all rights he could be pulling himself into the saddle by now.

Before he could make up an excuse, however, they were joined by a pale soldier a couple of inches taller than him with dark hair in a knot at the back of his head. Judging by the satchel under his arm, this was Ives. His face was sharp, cold. 

“Are you trying to set the mood in here or something? More light, if you don’t mind,” he immediately said to Jean. 

Flummoxed, Jean turned on his heel a couple of times before finding the gaslight sconces and the matches with which to light them. By the time he did so, Ives and Mercedes were already speaking in low, clinical tones about her injuries, including terms he didn’t quite understand. He hung back against the bunks opposite them, aggravated that he was intimidated.

“At least you can speak intelligently,” Ives said to her.

“I’ve read up. Not a bad field medic, either,” she said, her voice monotone.

Ives made a skeptical noise. “Shame you’re not in the Legion. I’m the only one they have now.” He turned on his knee to Jean again. His pale blue eyes pinned him in place, but his voice was matter-of-fact as he said, “If you’re going to stand there, make yourself useful. I need clean water and bandages -- at least six rolls -- you can find them in the supply room off the kitchen.” He turned back.

Jean bit down on a retort. While the efficiency seemed ruthless, he supposed he could understand it. He decided to comply with the request, and have that be the end of his involvement.

When he returned, he nearly dropped the water in surprise: the dirty, bloodstained dress was on the floor, along with his cloak, leaving Mercedes stretched out on the bunk in her underwear. Neither she nor Ives seemed to care, but Jean nonetheless averted his eyes as best he could as he set the steaming kettle and empty basin next to Ives and the bandages on the bed. Ives had already unrolled his satchel on the other side, revealing a long row of various tools in steel and ivory. 

“I’ll be going then,” Jean said to the floor. He noticed a folded square of paper near the dress’ sleeve -- it’d been wet at some point, and blue ink had bled through like a bruise.

Mercedes said nothing, but Ives looked up briefly. He hurriedly wet a wad of clean cotton with the hot water and handed it to her. “Start cleaning the wound sites,” he said, and stood. Jean was perturbed to find that Ives followed him out of the room. “A word.”

Jean groaned inwardly, but stepped out of the doorframe and waited. “If this is about how she got all that, she can tell you for herself.” 

Ives hesitated with the same look Mercedes had given him earlier -- an unspoken ‘Are you done?’ -- and then said, “When I’m done, it will be helpful for her to have someone to talk to. I believe she’s in shock.”

“Shock?” Jean’s brow furrowed. It wasn’t like he hadn’t heard of it or seen it, but as far as he’d been concerned Mercedes was only injured, and exhausted like they all were. She hadn’t had to actually go through with killing the King, after all. A part of him even wanted to laugh about how Garrison soldiers were soft, and had no idea what real shock was.  

Ives hummed an assent. “However she got like this, there’s something else going on. Unfortunately I don’t have the luxury of sticking around to try to coax it out of her.”

“And what makes you think I do?”

“You brought her here.”

“I have to get back to Captain Levi,” Jean said, hoping the name would throw more weight behind his cause. “We’re in the middle of a mission.”

Ives looked him up and down without moving his head. “Clearly.” He stared at him a moment more, sighed, and turned back inside the bunkroom, “Your choice.”

Jean hovered around the door, his fingers balling into fists as he debated what to do. After all, he did have a little bit of time. He needed to report to Erwin anyhow about the delay. That’d give him time to decide. He grimaced when he heard Mercedes curse loudly; as he passed the door he glanced in and saw Ives sitting her upright to wrap her ribs; she was bracing her arms on the bedframe, all tendons and muscles flexed and shadowed strangely by the disparate light sources, her head tilted back and teeth bared. He kept walking.

He found Erwin giving instructions not behind a desk, but from in front of the main fireplace that roared its heat into the room and around which most of the soldiers gravitated -- someone had set up large tureens of onion soup on a table nearby and was passing out bowls and bread rolls with admirable efficiency. Though he couldn’t remember the last time he ate, Jean had no appetite. He slipped through the crowd, missed his cloak that reaffirmed his belonging here.

“Sir,” he said a couple of times to secure the Commander’s attention.

Erwin acknowledged him with a hand on his shoulder, finished his thought with the other two soldiers, and then turned to Jean fully once they rushed away. “Kirstein. You came from Levi’s encampment,” he said, frowning.

“Not my preference, Sir,” said Jean. “Squad Leader Hange sent me after Mercedes showed up,” he jerked a thumb vaguely in the direction of upstairs.

Erwin looked out into the room for a moment, saying thoughtfully, “So that  _ was _ her, then.” And then back to him. “I’m grateful you brought her here. We owe the Carellos a great deal.”

This piqued his interest and went some way toward explaining the remorseful look on Erwin’s face at the sight of her. However, Jean put it away for the sake of the more pressing issue. “She intercepted Military Police scouts that were going to relay our position to reinforcements -- reinforcements that evidently haven’t received word about the coup.”

Erwin focused on him curiously. “And what became of those scouts?”

“...She -- she killed them.” Jean wasn’t sure why he was hesitant to say it.

Stranger still was that Erwin only smiled to himself and said, “I see.”

Jean barely resisted a perplexed squint, and hurried to explain the diversion and the subsequent two-day delay that Hange had proposed.

 

* * *

 

_ (Received two days prior) _

 

_ Dear Mrs Carello, _

_ I hope you don’t mind me writing to you so suddenly, and that you remember me -- this is Fhalz Lathan, Mercedes’ friend from the Western Division. You and I last saw one another when we came home to Klorva after the Disbanding Ceremony. _

_ Anyway, who I am doesn’t really matter. I’m writing to you because there’s nothing else I can do, and I’m afraid Mercedes is in trouble. Three days ago she went to Stohess, under Commander Erwin’s orders, to take part in the overthrowing of the Royal Government. To be more specific, he wanted her to be prepared to kill the King. I hope it doesn’t come to that -- maybe by the time you get this, the coup will have been successful -- but I’m worried about her. I tried to stop her but failed, and now I’m under constant supervision so I can’t go to her myself. _

_ Please, whatever you can do, please do it. I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate.  _

_ Yours Sincerely, _

_ F Lathan _

 

The letter still burned in her coat pocket; she had scarcely finished reading it before she’d fished out her pistol from behind the painting of a jaguar above the mantle, and heading outside to saddle her stallion. She remembered Fhalz -- and trusted her granddaughter’s choice of friends -- well enough to believe this was indeed an act of honest last resort on his part.

Despite her aching bones, Julia had ridden day and night without rest northeast from Klorva toward Stohess. She estimated that she would be there by morning -- perhaps only three or four hours away -- but it wasn’t soon enough. Her heart was a furnace.  _ Even if this is the last ride I’m able to make, I will not let harm befall you, my darling one. I will gladly go back into hell, for you. You’re all I have left... _


	23. Being Human

**Chapter 22**

_Summer, Year 850_

_(That same night)_

 

Jean drifted down the hall to the bunkroom after having glimpsed Ives elsewhere in the building, signalling he was done. When he got there, the room was darkened again -- the gaslights were turned down low. Mercedes lay still as a corpse on top of the covers and if she noticed his shadow falling through the doorway she did give any sign. She didn’t seem to care about her modesty either and so he supposed if she didn’t care, he wouldn’t, either. He hovered there, as he’d done before, but this time steeling himself.

“Why are you still here?” she growled. “I thought I was a snake in the grass? That you couldn’t wait to get back to your mission?”

The sudden spike in her ire and bitterness was surprising. Yet her composure cracking, rather than satisfying him, reminded Jean of his theory on the ride here -- that where there was pain, he could get in, yes, but that fighting back might not be the solution. He decided to give her a taste of her own medicine, and remain silent for a little longer. He came fully into the room; to discourage interruptions, he pushed the door to but did not close it.

Her head turned to look at him. "I told you to go!" she shouted. "What's wrong with you? How can you expect to be a member of the fucking Scouting Legion if you can't see your own decisions through? Scared they'll find out you got away as fast as you could? Scared they'll criticize you? Call you a coward, or selfish?"

It was the loudest and least composed he'd ever heard her, and each question was like a jab into his gut. He had to resist retorting – he had to get her to spend all her venom.

Her eyes were burning now. He didn't know where she was getting this strength from or what effect her shouting had on her injuries, but it didn't seem to faze her in the slightest. "Or is it that you're going to be the hypocrite, and stay behind with me because you want to be seen as a hero when in fact you're just covering up how weak-minded and indecisive you are? Do you want to wait here 'til it’s all over, so that you can tell them when they ask that you did everything you could?"

Jean kept his mouth shut with difficulty.

"What are you waiting for?" Her eyes narrowed and her lip curled. "If you think you're earning virtue in my eyes or being reassuring by your mere presence, you're wrong. What do you want? Some tears? Some massive confession on my part on how amazing you are and will continue to be, like some kind of talisman to repeat to yourself when you're frustrated and crying at the unfairness of the world, like I’m sure you do with Marco?"

Jean clenched his teeth and tried not to let any emotion show on his face. It was a struggle – how did she do it?

"Fuck," she spat, "do you want a goodbye kiss or something? I told you to go!"

He had to speak to disguise the reaction the word 'kiss' had provoked in his chest. "I'm not taking orders from you," he said as calmly as he could, and down beside her on a stool Ives must have found.

Mercedes fumed where she lay. Taking advantage of how much closer he was to her, now, she surprised him by heaving herself at him, growling, a fist clenched. He dodged and nearly toppled backward.

"Whoa! Hey! You're hurt!" Jean protested. He needn't have spoken, because she cried out in pain and froze, her other arm holding her torso. There were tears in her eyes and now they were overflowing onto her cheeks, melting what remained of his anger toward her in the process. Had they been there when she'd been shouting at him? Were they from the pain? He tried to make his voice gentle as he said, "Calm down –"

"What do you want from me?" she yelled, her voice cracking. "Why aren't you leaving?" Despite the crippling pain that should have had her flat on the bed, her face was pushed close to his, her eyes demanding an answer. He could see and hear her venom leaking away, replaced by pain and, he suspected, not only of the physical kind. Even with every trainer and commander they'd met and suffered under, he didn't think he'd ever meet someone as intense as her. It was becoming torture just to look at her.

"You were right, I'm not leaving. I'm staying here with you," he said at length. "And it's not because I'm a hypocrite or weak-minded. So lie, the fuck, back down." When she didn't move, her face looking unconvinced, he pushed her down onto her back for her. "You're injured. There's no point in us biting each other's heads off – at least not right now. You're smart, I thought you would have recognized that. Same goes for acting like you don't value your life at all."

Her eyes were closed and she was wincing in pain, now. The tears were drying on her face. "Who said I don't value my life?" she said, the vulnerability and suffering in her voice vanishing. He was thinking about how to regain the territory, there, when she distracted him with, "Maybe I just want to get away from all of you."

Jean looked at her askance, thinking back to Annie's betrayal. He froze. What if…despite what Erwin had said to reassure him and Armin...what if Mercedes _was_ the same? What if her version of getting away from them was to become ‘nothing’, to become inhuman? What if that was what that 'attack' the night she'd snuck out was all about?

The alarm must have shown on his face because she smirked briefly. "No," she said. "I'm not one of those."

"How am I supposed to believe you?" Jean replied. "Like I said, we don't know anything about you other than you hide so much of yourself. That night that you went out – you've not been the same after that. What if you've been running around the countryside as a Titan, like Annie, and that night was when it all started?" he retorted. He didn't think his words were accurate, but maybe it would coax out other information about her.

"That's not what happened that night," she said quickly, but didn't look at him. "I'm not a Titan-shifter. Sorry to disappoint you."

"Then what did happen?"

"I don't have to tell you that."

Jean sighed, letting things diffuse for a moment -- if he pressed too much too quickly, she’d become more defensive and he’d never get anything out of her.

There were scars among her -- surprisingly, enviably defined -- muscles. There was an ugly-looking, pink-fresh one starting on the left of her belly button and disappearing under her waistband. He looked away, but his eyes couldn't help but then be drawn to her shoulders and neck. The wound he'd only seen the hint of on her shoulder and neck was now in plain view in the lamplight -– a large multi-pointed shape like a star over the right tendon of her neck and splashing onto her collarbone. It was definitely mostly a burn, but the skin had broken, too, at some stage. Less severe but still fresh scars ringed her shoulders and underarms, peeking out from under the edges and straps of her combat bra. It was an odd set –- it didn't look like the aftermath of an everyday street fight. And if she had been as muscular then as she was now…

Mercedes laid back, her hands resting on her stomach. The jaguar’s head stared at him. Almost like an afterthought, she halfheartedly pulled the blanket that’d been flung to the wall side of the bed over her lower half. She sighed and seemed to beat back another wince, her eyes closing in a long blink. Jean let there be silence, watching her. He leaned over and propped his elbows on his knees, lacing his hands together. She seemed to have forgotten he was there – he could tell by the way her face had changed when she opened her eyes – she seemed to be thinking about something other than her injuries, now.

He decided to risk it. Moistening his lips, he asked, "You weren't just attacked by a robber, were you? Robbers don't tend to burn their victims or tie them up by their shoulders. Not to mention – they would have taken that bangle."

Mercedes glanced at him very briefly and pushed air loudly through her nose. She turned her head away to stare at the wall. Still, the fact that she hadn't argued or shut him down was encouraging. He gave her another handful of silence.

"After that night, you cut your hair and pretty much stopped talking to us. Every day, you looked like someone was going to jump out and grab you, or you stared at us like you weren't sure what we were anymore, like you'd seen something terrible. Did that to me in the forest earlier, too," Jean continued. "Sure, after a while it seemed like you got better – you did what you had to do, but stayed aloof. That's not the truth, though. You just got better at disguising it."

Again, Jean paused to gauge her reaction. She continued to say nothing and look at the wall. Had he not been so close to see the tiny signs – the most miniscule narrowing of her eyes or shifting of her jaw – he could have said she didn't react at all. But again, the lack of defense was encouraging. Maybe he was getting somewhere. If fighting fire with fire hadn't worked, maybe taking Marco's more compassionate approach would work better.

“And then, this whole business with agreeing to help Erwin -- put your career, your life at risk -- by being an assassin, getting shot for it…” Briefly, Erwin’s remorseful look when they’d arrived came to mind, but it didn’t assuage Jean’s opinion of the matter. “You didn’t do it for us, or him, or even humanity as a whole. You knew going into it that they thought you were expendable, but you went anyway.”

“That wasn’t what bothered me about my mission in that capital,” Mercedes said tersely.

Despite the fact that this was new and useful information, Jean didn’t let himself get sidetracked. "Don't you get tired of keeping it all to yourself?" he asked more softly. "I don't understand. What was the point in helping Erwin to begin with, or stopping our location from being discovered, if you’re convinced we’re monsters? If you didn’t still have some trust in us?” He hesitated. “You realize that if you spent even a fraction of your energy trusting even just one of us rather than spending it all holding every human being at arm's length, maybe you wouldn't hurt so bad."

"Who said I'm hurting?"

"Everyone hurts. Let someone help you. You don't have to struggle like this. No one's invincible."

"Don't you think I know that?" she burst, making him jump a little. She frowned, "I know that."

Jean fell cautiously quiet, because as he watched, her composure began to break down again – her face contorted and she squeezed her eyes shut. Her good arm raised her hand to her mouth, while her other wrapped around her stomach. The jaguar bangle glinted. He watched her shake and the tears squeeze out from under her eyelids. Her lips parted and she let out a deliberate, unstable exhale. The sight of her played havoc with his insides – he had caused her this, and he didn't know what to do about it. Had it been such a great idea to open the box? He opened his mouth to speak, but she did so first.

"Five of them...I have no idea who they were. They dragged me by my hair down into a basement. They said they had no questions to ask me, but if I could give them information on the Titan-shifters things might turn out differently for me. At the time I didn't know such things could exist," she said and sniffed loudly. "I didn't have any information to give them, obviously." Her hand pulled away from her face to ball into a fist at her chest; the other traveled down over the blanket to the scar on her abdomen. "Everything they did to me…they said it was because they had orders."

If Jean had felt bad before, now he felt wretched. _No wonder she looked like she was defending herself when I touched her, out in the woods._ He felt the knife twisted a little more in his gut when she finally looked up at him.

"Happy now?" she asked. "There was no motivation. They tortured me, raped me, for no real reason, except... 'The pathetic end of the Carello line in a filthy slut', they said.” She paused, thinking, looking downward. Then back at him again, “I am not ‘no one’, and everyone but me seems to know why,” she intoned. She moistened her chapped lips. “Titans are the monsters? I've seen what humanity really is, and I want to be as far away from it as possible. Make no mistake -- there is only one person keeping me here, behind the Walls, rather than transferring into the Scouting Legion." She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing, slow and deliberate, while her arms lay wrapped around her torso. Tears continued to flow freely down her face. Every time he'd seen a girl cry – or hell, anyone for that matter – it'd been a messy-looking affair; somehow she managed to remain dignified.

"I…" he began. It still hurt to watch, though. So much so that his hatred for her and plots to undermine her felt far away. He was back to looking at the vulnerable, weak Mercedes, no better than any of them. "What you just told me doesn't make me happy," he clarified. "How could it." In the quiet that followed she opened her eyes to look at the underside of the bunk, and he looked away in case she stung him again with eye contact. "I'm sorry," he said.

"For what?"

"For what happened to you."

"I don't need your pity."

Jean had to look back at her, then. "It's not pity, Mercedes."

She gave him another intense stare as if reading his soul, and he tried not to flinch under the gaze so as not to fail the test it seemed to be. He was surprised when her face softened a little, like when he'd first found her and she'd said his name. Her face was still glistening with tear trails, and although he wanted to reach out and wipe them away, he resisted.

"I'm sorry," she managed. He'd never heard her apologize before, at least not sarcastically. "Thank you," she added a little more uncertainly. Her eyes shifted back to looking at the bunk’s underside. Her face began to grow troubled again, her eyes distant.

"Are you remembering it?" he asked.

"I think about it all the time," she said breathily. A couple more tears slid over her cheeks as she lazily blinked – in tiredness or sadness, he couldn't decide. More gathered in her eyes.

Jean felt compelled to stop her crying. He couldn't stand to see it anymore. He wasn't sure if they were on equal terms now or disliked each other a little less, but he had to stop it. His hand reached out and squeezed her arm gently, testily. Her hand rose to cover her mouth again as her face contorted and she returned to the silent and strong weeping, as if his touch had opened a floodgate. It caused him enough panic to make him drop his cloak, shift to sit on the bed and lean over to hold her as best and carefully as he could, making soothing noises he'd never thought he'd hear himself make. His hands cradled her face; his thumbs ran over her wet cheekbones.

 _Stop, stop,_ he thought over and over. _It's unnatural – she shouldn't be weak like this. Please stop._ He was surprised how much it unsettled him, watching her crack apart so completely. He couldn't even imagine how he'd ever thought this would be a triumphant moment, or one where he gained the upper hand and used it to his advantage. The fact that she wasn't reacting to him suggested that she was in too deep to care. _Maybe, then, this was what she actually needed? Has she ever cried about it, even to herself?_

Mercedes continued to cry, her hand covering her mouth like she wanted to keep the sounds in, but eventually she seemed to give up on this, too, and the audible weeping began. A cloud of hot air gathered between them but he bore it.

"It's okay, 'Cee," Jean said, because he wasn't sure what else to say. He’d never called her that, like the others, but couldn’t resent himself for it. "It wasn't your fault." He hovered over her as she continued to shake, breathing deeply and closing his eyes to try to calm his own panic.

"I should have killed them!" she sputtered, but it didn't feel like she was talking to him.

"No. That would have made you little better than them. The best revenge is to live, and live well," he said, and even though he wasn't sure where that answer had come from, he liked it and tried to run with it. He rose so he could look at her properly, "That's what you were doing out here, right?" He was pretty sure that wasn't her motive, but maybe he could convince her otherwise.

"I don't know," she whispered, her eyes wide. "But in that library --” she cut herself off, shook her head. He had no time to pursue it. “I don't know. I shouldn't…I shouldn't be like this. I have to keep it together," she wiped at her eyes and turned her head; her hand touching his sent shivers down his spine and he hated that. He released her head in case she truly realized he was there and took offense.

"No, you don't always have to have it together. It's okay right now. We're not in the middle of an onslaught. Everyone has their moments – that's what makes us human," he volunteered. "The fact that we can be weak makes us strong." He hoped it didn't sound like complete trite to her like it did to him.

"Maybe I shouldn't be human, then," she said bitterly. Her face did not betray the emotion of her voice and he continued to stare at her – with the contempt, paranoia and haughtiness gone, she looked rather…normal. The annoying feeling that he didn't want to name was bubbling in his chest again, but he couldn't stop himself from observing: she was beautiful right now because she was being human, and he wanted to kiss that before it was gone.

Realizing what he'd thought, he blushed violently and retracted his hands farther. He hoped she didn’t see it. His tongue was tied. _Say something you idiot! You can’t let her think that!_

Mercedes didn't answer, and didn't look at him. At least, he noticed gratefully, her crying seemed to have stopped. Goosebumps erupted over her arms. Then, her head turned slowly to fix her gaze on his. As he watched in confusion, her expression contorted into one of horror.

All schoolboyish embarrassment was flushed out of him. “What --”

“Get out,” she ordered.

“What?”

“And if you tell anyone _anything_ about what I told you I’ll kill you,” she hissed. “Get out!” She was trying to rise, maybe to try to force him, and for that reason alone he obeyed despite the nauseatingly quick resurgence of his exasperation with her.

 _Fucking bitch!_ he thought as he retreated, scowling at her over his shoulder. _What a waste of my time. I should have just left --_ Out in the hall, he stopped, shocked at himself. _‘Should have just left her in the woods after all,’_ he thought. He took a couple of calming breaths, wiped his hand down his oily face. _You don’t mean that. Don’t undo all your hard work,_ he told himself, because it was easier than telling himself that what he felt was more complicated than hate. He went in search of a shower.

 

* * *

 

Mercedes listened to Jean stamp away down the hall. Though it hurt, she carefully turned over on her side to face the wall, covering her face with her hands. She wanted to disappear.

Initially it’d been so easy to just talk, let it all out. It was like being slammed into a wall when she was finally lucid enough to realize _who_ she was letting it all out _to_. But really, if she was honest with herself she’d been aware of it ever since he came back; he’d sat down with her. It looked like he was making an effort and for some awful reason it made her want to offer something in return, even if it was just the overflow from her too-full heart. She’d be lying if she said that he hadn’t comforted her. How long had it been since anyone had touched her tenderly? Dared to? She was starved of being soothed.

 _“It wasn’t your fault,”_ she remembered him saying. That he’d bothered to ask at all. That it wasn’t pity.

Jean, of all people. She’d always cried to her grandmother as a little girl and assumed that when she was older it’d be the same -- not that she wanted to worry her -- or maybe Fhalz.

 _Fhalz…_ she thought of him briefly, with an ache. It haunted her, having to hurt him to get away from his rare compassion. Not telling him everything, ever. He told her everything, as far as she was aware. He was the closest thing she had to a best friend -- or was. Maybe now she was truly alone.

But every time she thought of loneliness, she thought of Julia. Much as Mercedes always liked to think she could stand, even preferred, loneliness, she couldn’t bear the idea of being without her grandmother. A far deeper pain -- deeper than she’d ever felt for anyone, including her parents, who’d vanished when she was far too young -- burrowed into her psyche like a taproot whenever she allowed herself to miss Julia. She also wasn’t ignorant of the fact that if anyone was intimate with loneliness, it was her grandmother. Her own feelings of isolation seemed petty in comparison.

Her sinuses began to throb and her face warm as more ugly tears threatened to leak out of her in the dark. _This is ridiculous,_ she told herself, but was unable to stop. _Maybe if I can just sleep, I can forget everything. Long enough to get me back to my post and my job, at any rate. I just want to be a soldier. I don’t want my name, whatever it means. Granna...what haven’t you told me?_


	24. What We Allow

**Chapter 23**

_ Summer, Year 850 _

_ (The next morning) _

 

Having procrastinated as long as she could by watering Bashka and stretching her legs, Julia headed toward the outer Stohess gate at a steady walk. Despite the fury of her flight here, seeing the structure that led, in turn, to the place that harbored the origin of her innermost fears -- Mitras -- was enough to slow her down.

She glared up at it.  _ I’m already short and shrinking by the year. No need to loom. _

The shadow fell over her like a pall. The gate itself was open, and traffic was steady and a good mix of military and pedestrian. Practically everyone was talking of the dethronement of King Fritz and the ongoing mission to install the rightful ruler. Though this meant any military activity that her granddaughter was involved in was over, it was small comfort. 

_ The tools of my slow death are gone, but the hand remains, _ she thought.  _ All I have left...all I have left…Mercedes... _ Her heartrate picked up again -- if she was of a poorer constitution she’d be worried for her health. Instead she snapped Bashka’s reins and hurried them forward, plunging on with all senses alert as if she were going outside the Walls rather than farther inside them. 

Julia did not do well with anxiety. It very easily shapeshifted into anger. When her face started to hurt she realized she was scowling intensely and that it was little wonder people moved out of her way. But how could these people just be going about their daily lives? It infuriated her. They were all in her way. This Wall was in her way. These buildings were in her way. She wished she could level it all with a wave of her hand, and find Mercedes instantly.

“You!” she shouted to a passing pair of Military Police soldiers. “Where’s Commander Erwin?”

They looked at her as if she was some creature from a children’s story coming out of the sewer -- something she was used to. “How are we supposed to know?” the bolder of the two said.

“Listen here, you little shit,” she snapped without missing a beat, “I don’t have time for your tongue -- answer me before I cut it out.”

“Head to the Legion headquarters then,” the same one shrugged, but was obviously ruffled enough to begin walking hurriedly. The other followed without providing any elaboration.

Julia barked a wordless noise at them, and then spat on the street. She looked around her.  _ Fuck if I remember where it is. _

“Excuse me?” came a far sweeter voice. Julia turned to her left and slightly behind her in surprise, where she was being approached by a tall whip of a girl with pale blonde hair down her back. She was smiling almost absurdly delightfully. “Hello! I can take you to the headquarters if you like,” she offered. She then pulled at the hem of her shirt, “I’m off-duty but I’m actually a member of the Garrison; I don’t live far from the Legion HQ. It’s no bother.”

“Thank you, that’d be helpful,” Julia conceded. “At last someone with manners.”

 

* * *

 

Jean told himself it was only because he wasn’t sure anyone else had thought to -- and it gave him an excuse to go see her before he left. He ducked into the kitchens where breakfast had been served an hour ago; most of the soldiers were eating or had already done so and left, meaning there wasn’t much of a line and no one paid him any attention. As he filled a bowl with warm, cinnamon-scented porridge, a glance to one side showed him Ives at a nearby table refilling his medical satchel’s supplies, another Scout placing a bowl beside him. Jean tried not to listen but couldn’t help himself.

“Here, make sure you eat.”

“Soon.”

“No, now.”

“Zenas.”

“Otherwise you’ll get sidetracked and forget. We’re not leaving until the morning, anyway -- plenty of time for you to do what you need to do.” Jean saw the far darker man lean over and whisper something in Ives’ ear, which resulted in a blush but also the faintest hook of a smirk. “Here.” Zenas procured something small wrapped in paper from his pocket and gave it to him, pecked him on the cheek. “Last one at the baker’s down the street.”

“I see you’ve already taste-tested it for me.”

“Yeah -- y’know, to be safe. Don’t worry, no apples this time.”

Jean averted his eyes and saw that coincidentally there was a half-empty bowl of bright green apples on the table, too. He grabbed one along with a spoon, and headed for the bunk rooms.

Having had the time to rest for a few hours and not only decompress from the responsibilities of Squad Levi, but also to digest what Mercedes had told him, had helped give him a new perspective.  _ Up there, last night,  _ he thought,  _ all I could think about was how  _ I _ was feeling and what effect her actions had on  _ me _. But...what do I do with all of that?  _

He headed upstairs; like the night in the forest there was something dreamlike about it -- it didn’t feel completely real, him being here, with her, bringing her breakfast of all things. Neither did the night before feel real. Had Mercedes really let down her defenses in front of him? Had he really tried to comfort her? Had he really thought all those things about her? 

The floorboards creaked underfoot as he reached the hall and headed down it. The sounds of the breakfasting soldiers below faded away. When he reached the bunkroom, someone had pulled the door to but hadn’t closed it; he pushed it with his shoulder and entered. It was like going inside a warm cloud -- the gaslights were turned up just enough to make the room glow like a lantern.

She was awake, oddly, turning her bangle over and over in her hands in front of her face. Either she hadn't noticed the door move or she was choosing to ignore him.

"You should be sleeping," he ventured.

"And you should be riding away."

Her tone belonged to the same old her, not the one he'd listened to and watched over on the road. Jean's heart sank a little. He wandered a few steps into the room and stopped, afraid to get close to her until he had some sign of who he was dealing with or how he should act. Were they 'friends', now, or back to square one? The hot underside of the bowl began to sear his fingers.

"I'm fine, thank you," she said, eyeing the bowl he carried, and it reminded him of how she'd spoken to Marco that time in the canteen back when they were trainees, before Trost ever happened. Was she mocking him?

Jean frowned at her as she looked away, back to the bangle, as disinterested in him and his efforts as she’d been that first Thursday she’d shown up at the Southern Division compound.  _ Like she’s trying to start all over again, pretend what she told me...never happened.  _ This made him unexpectedly indignant. All of his -- and her, admittedly -- efforts would go to waste if she had her way. He stepped forward and set the steaming bowl on the stool beside her, attracting her attention again.

“Eat,” he said.

“Later.”

“No, now,” he said and, surprised not only at his insistence but at his echoing of Zenas earlier, took a step back once more and folded his arms. In his periphery he could see the way her hair was loose, puddling on the pillow. It looked washed. “Can you sit up? Or are you still in pain?”

“Ives dosed me up,” she replied and sat up slowly, slipping the bangle back on her wrist. The blanket dropped into her lap, but this time her lack of a shirt did not embarrass him. A ghost of a smile played around her features. Oddly, it seemed like one of the more genuine expressions she'd shown him outside of, again, what had happened on the road, even if he wasn’t sure why she did it.

He reflected again on how separate from this world those hours seemed. It was like they were locked in a room that he could never enter again, aside from stealing glimpses of it under the door. He wondered if she thought the same. "How long did he say you'd be down for?" he asked next. When he pushed his hands in his pockets, he found the coil of her hair meeting his fingertips – he couldn't even remember putting it in there, this time – and it reminded him of how he'd touched her hair out on the road; everything he'd thought about her came swarming back and made it difficult to concentrate on her answer.

"…probably be healed enough to move back to my HQ in a week." Jean tuned back in to her voice and shut out thoughts of her lips. "Are all these questions why you haven’t left?" she spoke to the bowl she was carefully taking into her hands.

_ I wanted to kiss her back then. She's not talking about anything that we experienced out there, so what was I thinking? What did I think she would talk about? This is our reality. I don't mean anything to her,  _ he thought.

"Jean?"

When she said his name he may as well have been back out on the road; everything he'd thought and felt caught alight in his chest and grew stronger. He took a deep, arduous breath. Could she see him shaking? He stood there dumbly with his mouth pressed firmly shut, not wanting to speak in case he incriminated himself. Had Marco felt like this, he wondered? Placed so much yearning on her simply saying his name?

_ Marco, _ he remembered. Remembered how his friend had looked at her, did his best to talk to her, mumbled her name in his sleep; the last thing he'd said to Jean was how he hoped she was all right. The guilt drowned whatever fire had been in his chest. _ I can't do this. She was meant for you. I can look after her for you, but that’s it. I can't step into your place. I mean nothing. _

With difficulty Jean pushed all of his thoughts away, hemming them in the same room that seemed to contain everything that had happened on the road and shutting the door. After all, that seemed to be how Mercedes functioned – why couldn't he?

He glanced down only briefly at her, and found her expression unreadable. “Is there…” Did she hold her breath? Did something change in her eyes? No. Surely not. He looked at his cloak, bloody still but now folded neatly on the floor, to finish his thought. “Is there anyone I should send for, for you?”

After a moment’s hesitation, she said softly, “My grandmother. Julia Carello -- #2 Old Mine Trace, Klorva.”

The way she pronounced the name was strange -- as though she was saying ‘hue’ -- and the lilt and tempo to her surname was different than how she said it when she named herself. He wondered why it was different -- why she gave a different music to her grandmother and not to herself. 

_ “I’m nothing,”  _ he remembered her saying.  _ Undeserving of music. _

She hadn’t said anything else. She was despondently folding the porridge over on itself with her spoon. 

“All right,” Jean said quietly. He bent to pick up his cloak. “I’ll do that before I leave.” He walked away, but before he left the room he paused, confessed the thought that’d been burning in him all night, “For the record...I like you better as a human being,” and forced himself out of her presence without waiting for a reaction or response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Note from the Author: Zenas is borrowed from WingsOfWax - https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingsOfWax - and our collaborative story, Sutures et Le Sucre. This fic is also the original stomping grounds of Wil Ives.


	25. Julia

**Chapter 24**

_ Summer, Year 850 _

 

Jean was surprised to find Commander Erwin of all people stopped to one side of the door; he removed a hand from the wall and straightened. If Jean didn’t know better he’d think the commander was eavesdropping; they both cleared their throats anxiously. Jean stepped fully out into the hall and saluted, “Sir,” because he wasn’t sure what else to say.

“Sending for Julia is a good idea,” Erwin said, but it was more like admitting he’d listened in. Jean noticed he’d pronounced ‘Julia’ the same way as Mercedes, suggesting respect, and moreover referring to this woman, whoever she was, by first name spoke of an odd familiarity. Overall it gave him the impression that ‘sending for Julia’ was something larger than merely alerting her to her granddaughter’s health and location. Like some greater force would be set into motion, like waking something up.

Jean was about to venture to ask, when commotion downstairs drew their attention. Among the confused and placatory voices of soldiers and a door slamming open, a shrill, crass voice was rattling out demands faster than Jean could process. He thought he heard ‘Erwin’ among them. 

“No need after all, it seems.”

Jean glanced at Erwin -- he was smiling as he looked over the bannister into the floor below. By the way his gaze was rising and the sound was moving, whatever he was smiling at was coming up the stairs. 

“I was looking forward to never seeing you again, hag. Go bother someone else, yeah?”

“Shut your trap, Ronan -- I have no time for you.”

“You are kinda running out, I guess. Maybe go spend it at a butcher’s if you want to bite off heads?”

“I’ll blow yours off right here and now if you don’t get out of my way. That’ll get the smirk off your face.”

Pursued by a couple of Scouts -- one of whom was Zenas, Jean noticed; presumably ‘Ronan’ by the way he was trying to disguise a smirk  -- and a tall blonde girl in civilian clothes, a tiny, furious elderly woman emerged at the top of the stairs at the end of the hall and limped along it toward them, using the bannister to support herself. Her clothes gave her the appearance of some kind of industrial worker: charcoal-colored loose men’s work pants, into which was tucked a faded dark blue linen shirt, and thick brown leather boots. Her gray hair -- even from this distance, easily recognisable as Mercedes’ curls -- was piled on top of her head like a nest of some kind. She was very easily under five feet tall but nonetheless the scowl on her face made Jean anxious -- as she got closer he could see a pistol on her belt, too. 

“ _ There you are _ ,” she hissed at Erwin.

“Commander! Our apologies! She --”

Erwin held up his hand. He was still smiling, as though glad to see her. “It’s all right. Please leave us.” They did so, but the girl continued to hesitantly trail her a couple of paces back; if Erwin minded, he did not comment. “It’s good to see you again, Julia.” His voice was genuinely warm, although a little sad, Jean noticed.

She’d reached them. “Fuck you,” she spat. “Where is my child?” Her teeth were bared, just like how he’d seen Mercedes do, and her dark, bright eyes were sharp as flint as they peered out of her wrinkled but no less cat-like face. The stare was intense, desperate, dangerous. It was like looking at Mercedes’ older Doppelganger. 

Before either of them could answer her, Mercedes voice came from behind him. “Granna?” Jean turned to see her holding herself up with difficulty with the doorframe, one hand holding the blanket around her shoulders. The amount of relief and visible pain on her face shocked him.

Julia made a noise somewhere between a bark and a groan, spotting her. Instantly her anger dropped away, replaced by tears and gratefulness. Jean was nudged out of the way as both women pushed away from their crutches and into each other’s arms instead. Their embrace was crushing, but neither seemed to care; gratefully-groaning noises squeezed out from between them. One of Julia’s small, crooked hands clutched the back of Mercedes’ head and then began stroking her loose hair. Jean had never seen such an openly loving relationship between parent and child; his flush of embarrassment and mockery rapidly caved into envy and guilt.

Suddenly it was over, at least for Julia -- she held Mercedes away from her with both hands and demanded, “Where have you been? What happened?”

“Perhaps we should go back in the bunkroom -- she’s injured, after all,” Erwin suggested and gestured at the doorway.

Oddly, the blonde stepped up to the other two women as if it was her cue, “All right then, in we go,” and began to assist Mercedes inside. She was as tall as Jean and this made her efforts with the shorter girl amusing, but she did so happily and Mercedes didn’t object. Maybe Julia had brought her; she did seem to belong here somehow.

On the other hand, when Erwin offered Julia his arm for support she merely looked skeptically at his missing one and said, “Save it for yourself -- you seem to be in short supply,” and hobbled onward with the help of the wall. 

The smallest of chuckles came from Erwin; as he and Jean entered he said, “Allow me to introduce Julia Carello -- one of our most gifted mechanical engineers, and an old friend. We owe our lives to her contributions to --”

“Spare us, Erwin,” Julia sighed. “I’m just an old woman here for her granddaughter.”

The blonde had helped Mercedes back into bed. Mercedes began speaking in low tones to Julia, a stern look on her face. Julia mirrored her, and they sniped back and forth for a few turns, gradually getting louder until Jean could make out something about ‘two days’ and porridge, confirmed by the way Mercedes was trying to force the bowl into her grandmother’s hands with a hiss of, “Nutrition, Julia.” 

Julia rolled her eyes and took it, sat down with effort on the stool. After a couple of bites she looked up at Erwin. “So.”

He glanced implicitly at the blonde at last, “Your guest?”

Julia squinted at him and gave him a sarcastic smile as she nodded at Jean. “Yours?”

Jean’s spine went rigid. There was a strange, heavy pause. He wondered if he should take the initiative and volunteer to leave, though part of him didn’t want to. Nothing could be said that he didn’t already know, surely?

The blonde suddenly stopped in her slicing and coring of the apple with a pocketknife, as if surprised by her own movements, and laughed at herself before offering it to Mercedes. “Here you go -- oh, did you want it peeled?”

Mercedes confusedly took it. “No, no that’s all right…”

“Sorry,” she grinned, oblivious to the others now looking at her. “Also sorry -- I’m Baena. Baena Cullis.”

Julia turned back to Erwin with a shrug, “See? Family friend. Or your definition of it, anyway.”

Jean gawped, but Erwin seemed to take the underhanded jab in his stride. “The door, if you wouldn’t mind, Kirstein.”

Jean did so.

“Now, where have you been?” Julia repeated to Mercedes. “Fhalz wrote to me,” she pulled a letter out of her jacket pocket. “He said you were in trouble, that you might have to kill the King. Is that what happened? How --”

“Julia,” Erwin interjected kindly, but firmly. This seemed to stop Mercedes from answering, too. Both of them turned to him. “Whatever you may have heard, your granddaughter was in no way involved with an assassination. That’s a little far-fetched, wouldn’t you say?”

“I’ve seen plenty of far-fetched things in my lifetime,” she sneered at him.

“Of course,” Erwin nodded sympathetically. “And no doubt that leads you to suspect everything I say. But, it’s true. Mercedes was asked to be in Stohess as backup, in case we needed to escape -- you are fine marksmen, after all. Nothing more.”

“Then why is she lying here wounded?”

“There was a confrontation close to one of our remote encampments; she assisted us. Jean here,” Erwin gestured to him, “brought her to HQ afterward for treatment by our medic.”

“The Ives kid,” Julia said. “Saw him and the Ronan -- irony of ironies -- downstairs. Hope they don’t count that as fulfilling my favor.”

Jean gave up trying to put all these new and varied pieces together. Instead, he focused on the fact that not only had Erwin lied to Julia, and Mercedes had let him, but that Julia -- judging by her obvious lie about Baena -- maybe knew it. He looked at Mercedes, whose gaze was already on him, and held it for a moment.

Then she looked away, reached out to place a hand on Julia’s arm. “Fhalz got the wrong impression somewhere, Granna. That’s all. I’m sorry you rode all the way out here with that worry.” She nonetheless took the letter from Julia and read it, her face crestfallen by the time she reached the end. She mimed something to herself that he couldn’t make out and handed it back.

“Hm,” Julia hummed skeptically. Another heavy, anxious pause. “The King has been dethroned, then,” she said at last.

“Yes,” Erwin said, and Jean couldn’t help but retain the impression that Erwin was responding to her in an almost deferential manner. “I know it can’t make up for --”

“Let’s not beat a dead horse. Now, if you’ll let us borrow a cart of some kind we can be out of this infernal place.”

“It can’t be safe to move Mercedes yet. Do you want out of here that bad?” Jean said before he could stop himself. 

Julia honed in on him with her ageless eyes. “We’ve had more desperate runs.”

“But why run at all?” he pressed. He couldn’t help himself. “What the fuck is going on?”

“Drop it, Kirstein,” Mercedes said.

“Thank you for helping my granddaughter,” Julia said, “but that’s as far as your involvement goes, understand?”

“Excuse me?” Jean took a step forward. The one hand holding his cloak clenched it hard; he could feel dried blood scraping up under his nails. “How about we all stop speaking in riddles for change?”

“Jean,” Mercedes tried again, catching his attention. When he looked at her, her eyes were downcast to the fragmented, browning apple in her hands. “Please.”

He hated how those two words seemed to put out the worst of the flames burning through his ribcage, and simultaneously try to replace them with something just as hungry. He stood there feeling like a chastized child for a moment longer, and then mumbled, “Goodbye, Mercedes.” He saluted to Erwin. “I’ll be going back to the rendezvous point now, as planned, Sir.” And this time, he left as planned. He slung his cloak -- stiff still in places with Mercedes’ blood -- over his shoulders.

 

* * *

 

“I apologize for him,” Erwin said once Jean had left and was a suitable distance away.

“Why did I have to tell him to drop it?” Mercedes intoned.

“The same reason the both of you are lying to me right now,” Julia answered. 

Erwin took in a deep breath. “Miss Cullis, could you excuse us?”

“Yeah, sure,” she said brightly, and stood from her crouch. The door closed behind her.

There was something...intimidating about being in a fairly dark room, alone, with two Carellos. When was the last time that had happened, he wondered?  _ It must have been with Léon and Amaranta, that last visit to the ranch,  _ he guessed.  _ When they gave me their observations and terrain notes. We’d reviewed the preliminary plans for the long-range formation with Shadis. _ He looked down at Léon’s mother and daughter, and saw two very different incarnations of his face frowning up at him. How catlike they were -- like they were cornered and going to spring any moment now, rip him to pieces -- how deserving of their ancient heraldic animal. How deserving he was of their wrath.

“Do you remember what I told you, Mercedes?” Erwin asked.”What was the last thing I said to you, that afternoon in the field when I asked for your help?”

“That it was my -- our -- revolution as well as yours. That jaguars don’t do well in captivity,” she replied, and repositioned on the bed by placing a pillow under her back and leaning on her elbows, no doubt to ease the stress on her ribcage. At that angle she couldn’t look at him and he was somewhat grateful for it.

“You mean to tell me that you’re deliberately trying to draw us out?” Julia said, her voice a rapid simmer.

“By ripping down the cage, yes,” Erwin said. 

Julia did not blink as she stared at him, “To what end? Did it ever occur to you that we put up the cage and rather liked it? That maybe it was to keep others out rather than keep us in?”

Erwin did not have a response for this. Although fully aware of the circumstances that had brought the Carellos to their knees, he did not know its source, if it wasn’t the regime they’d just brought down -- he did not know who it was that Julia wanted to keep away from her and Mercedes. While he wanted to put it down to understandable yet baseless paranoia on her part, that didn’t feel correct. It was also interesting that Mercedes had gone along with his lie to protect her grandmother from the truth, and he wondered if there was something more that she had thus allowed to be hidden at the same time. But most of all, he did not understand why Julia seemed intent on keeping the family history from her granddaughter. Perhaps that would change, if he could change their luck.

“The Scouting Legion moves out this evening to rendezvous with our Special Operations Squad -- of which Jean Kirstein is one,” he continued. “The revolution is not quite done. We still have to rip out its very roots and plant something new -- something better, something genuine.” Erwin took a step forward and crouched, bracing himself with one knee, in front of Julia and Mercedes, hoping the move would better-convey the honesty neither of them wanted to hear. “With all you’ve seen, Julia, I want you to see the dreams of your sons and husband come to pass. I would very much like the last of the Carellos to live in a world where they no longer need to constantly look over their shoulders.” His voice dropped to a whisper, “Only when it’s done will I consider this one -- of my many debts -- repaid.”

The anger had washed out of Julia’s face, replaced by a weariness, a sadness. She regarded him with a certain pity, but he didn’t mind. She sighed and placed the now-cold bowl of half-eaten porridge on the bed, and then looked at him a moment more before she said, “Joaquin was right about you. Your sense of honor will be your undoing -- you’re a glutton for the endless cycle of dreams and the guilt over not reaching them.” She sat back a little, the gentleness retreating inside her. “No wonder they all liked you so much. Kindred spirits, all six of you.” She pushed air through her nose. “Well go away then. Nice as you are to look at, it sure isn’t rounding up a revolution.”


End file.
